


Their Toy

by EvilDime



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Albus Dumbledore Bashing, Anal Sex, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Porn, Angst with a Happy Ending, BDSM, BDSM Scene, Bottom Harry Potter, Captivity, Consensual Kink, Crack and Angst, Death Eater Whore trope, F/M, Flashbacks, Gangbang, Harry Potter is Not the Boy-Who-Lived, M/M, Manipulative Albus Dumbledore, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Nipple Torture, Oral Sex, Past Sexual Abuse, Post-War, Prostitution, Sex Work, Sexual Slavery, Spanking, Strap-Ons, Torture, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Wax Play, Wrong Boy-Who-Lived (Harry Potter)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2020-10-05 23:08:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 42,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20496875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvilDime/pseuds/EvilDime
Summary: Harry Potter actually wasn't the Boy Who Lived. A highly interested party accidentally finds out what happened to him after the Wizarding World lost interest.





	1. Dragonhide Boots

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this on a lark six or seven years ago and only added to it a little at a time over the years. I don't know how good it is to read. But I finally got to a point where I can nearly declare it finished, so it's going up a chapter a week, starting now. 
> 
> This fic features an utter crackpot pairing. But I believe I actually made it work. (?) I'm not going to tell you who it is, though. That would be too much of a spoiler...
> 
> As to the warnings: The sexual abuse begins when Harry is sixteen, but this fic is set several years later. There are some detailed descriptions of his past torture, though, without anything anchoring them directly on the timeline, so I felt safer adding the rape and underage warnings.

The high heels of a pair of boots sparkling with luminescent scales like specially treated crocodile leather made clicking noises on the plain linoleum floor. But for the cloth folded over his eyes, the man kneeling on the bed might have been able to tell that the woman was wearing no mere muggle artefact; the boots were made of extravagant and immensely durable dragonhide.

Yet his eyes were closed, he had nothing but the sound of the clicking heels to tell him that his Mistress had arrived at the foot of the bed and seemed content to stand there, studying him for a while. He felt himself become erect at her scrutiny. Hoping she liked what she saw, since not all of him had been clearly visible in the picture, he sat up that little bit straighter and breathlessly awaited her judgement.

When the manager had told him of this customer's particular fantasy, he had immediately agreed. There were few things he didn't do – humiliation was one of them, electroshocks were another – but there were also few things he enjoyed quite as much as what this customer was making him hope for.

A woman with a strap-on. Was that ever a hot thought!

A woman who was willing and, according to Jeff, quite eager to mark his pert behind with a riding crop, then force him to lick her and do many more unspeakable and wonderful things to him before finally granting him his wish, preparing him thoroughly to be fucked by her cock. Jeff had reassured him that her equipment looked rather expensive, thick but smooth, so it might hurt, but should not injure him.

He hadn't been so enthusiastic about his work in a while.

There were few places around London – in fact, few in all of England, as Jeff had told him, that catered to both men and women and offered males and females to everyone alike. Even fewer were the colleagues of his that didn't specialize on one or the other – men only, women only, exclusively vanilla-sex or just the kinky stuff.

He was fairly unique in that he seemed to enjoy sex in whichever form it came. As long as his partners granted him an orgasm, as well. That was the only condition attached to acquiring his willing cooperation in any kind of bedroom games.

A hand on his cheek ripped him out of his thoughts and brought his tension to a head; he let out a light gasp.

"So responsive," the woman purred at him in a low voice. It sounded like one of those 'bedroom voices' that people only used in intimate situations. He wondered what her voice might be like in a more normal context.

"I trust everything has been explained to you. Should we still run into any difficulties, your manager has told me that you work with the standard traffic lights. I will probably not ask you for 'green', but feel free to use 'yellow' or 'red' if you need to."

"Yes Mistress," he answered demurely, secretly happy to hear her business-like tone. It told him that this was not the first time she did this sort of thing and he could expect her to know what she was doing.

He wondered what she looked like. Judging by the voice, he would place her at somewhere between thirty and forty, quite a ways beyond his own twenty-five.

He didn't mind the age difference. It wasn't usually the young ones that frequented places like Jeff's _Exotic Dreams. _He had experimented with older men and women before he started his job here, and had since had his suspected ability to enjoy sex with anyone between eighteen and eighty confirmed. Admittedly, the 79-year old woman had only asked for a light spanking, so that might not truly count as sex; however, he remembered her fondly. The aged masochist had a wicked sense of humour and didn't hesitate to ask for what she wanted.

The woman currently in the room with him, quite conversely, took her sweet time to get started. It occurred to him then that he had forgotten to ask for how many hours she had booked him.

Well, too late now to change that. He would simply have to live with the uncertainty.

His cock twitched.

"My, my, my, aren't we eager."

The man startled as the tip of a riding crop was pushed into his crotch, the leather strap sliding over his balls. A mild tap at the tip on his family jewels had him drawing in his breath sharply. That had not been talked about! It was hot, but it also made him slightly anxious. Would the woman not stick to the script?

The woman laughed softly as his shoulders tensed. "Not to worry, slave, I have every intention of playing with that, so I shall not ruin it at the very start. I will mostly keep to what was talked about. But what is the fun in a game that you already know all about? Don't you agree that some things have to be left to the imagination for it to be truly... exciting?"

He gulped. "Yes, Mistress," he said, his voice rough.

"Very good," she chuckled. Her hand cradled his balls and played a little with them. He hardly dared to breathe when he felt her tongue at the head of his already straining cock. That was something very few of his customers ever did, and he had not expected it from this lady.

Her warm tongue kept sweetly torturing him while her hands roamed. One pinched a nipple and after his heart-felt moan, decided to stay and play with it for awhile. The other seemed to be learning his body, from his neck to the hollow of his knees. He was once again amazed at the female ability to multi-task.

After quite some time, he felt her retreat. "I don't want you coming before I say so," the woman said strictly, yet still in her smoky bedroom voice. "Do you need help with that?"

He stopped to consider the question for a while. Finally he decided to better be safe than sorry. "Yes please, Mistress."

Keeping his arms crossed behind his back and his body still was difficult when the cool, nimble fingers once again returned between his legs, yet he was practised enough to manage. He kept still until the woman had put the ring and harness on him, then he allowed himself to sag a little with a part relieved, part sorrowful sigh. His metal wrist cuffs quietly clinked together. It would be a while until he was allowed to come, he could tell.

A sudden whoosh of air, followed by a sting in his side, let him know that the woman had picked up her riding crop again. He felt the bed dent where she shifted into position. Then her low voice reached his ears once more. "Over my lap, slave."

He carefully started to lower himself towards her, not wanting to miss and accidentally bump into her. But her hand grabbed his hair and forcefully sped up his progress. Not two seconds later, he was lying face down in the sheets, his torso resting on her legs, his rock-hard prick digging into her right hip, and his legs trailing off to the side.

"Count them," she said. "You may scream if you wish."

Then the first hit fell. Despite the awkward angle, she wielded the crop expertly, building up slowly but steadily, letting him get used to the feel of it until she was certain he could take more. His skin began to smart after some twenty hits, and the first groan ripped lose at about fifty. From then on, the hits rained down on his hot flesh strong, fast and merciless. Every consequent hit earned his Mistress a groan, sometimes even a scream, and his counting wavered.

He knew it was bad form to rub up against his Mistress while she was punishing him, but it took a lot of effort to keep from doing it. After another fifteen hits, he simply didn't have that kind of self-restraint anymore.

He felt one of her hands lovingly caress his flaming behind as she paused between two hits. She seemed to appreciate his loss of control. However, she admonished him to keep counting.

At exactly a hundred hits, she stopped. She helped him move off her lap and lie down in the centre of the bed. "Did you enjoy that, slave?" she asked as she wiped away a tear that had escaped from under his blindfold during the last few hits.

"Yes, Mistress. Thank you, Mistress." And he truly had. This woman was amazing. Strong, determined, and quite capable of beating a man to mush.

A lustful shudder went down his back. Would she show herself to be this proficient with the strap-on?

As he lay there, his senses still sharpened by the blindfold robbing him of his sight, he heard her taking off some, possibly all of her clothes. He felt every little dip of the mattress as the woman moved towards him. What was she going to do to him next?

A hot, musky-sweet scent hit his nose as the bed finally indented next to first his left, then his right shoulder. Then she was upon him, legs spread around his head, womanhood lowered towards his mouth.

Smothering him.

He gave his best effort to lick her, despite hardly being able to breathe, to move. Her legs were keeping his arms in check, while her hands had taken hold of his hair and were moving his head up and down as she pleased.

He noticed with satisfaction that he was pleasing her, indeed. Her honey ran hot and sticky into his mouth, giving all the confirmation he could wish for. Little gasps and moans left her mouth whenever he poked against her little nub of pleasure, and though she sometimes granted him a moment to breathe, those became ever sparser as her orgasm approached. Her hands had twisted roughly in his hair and were pulling him this way and that with abandon.

His breathing became deep and laborious, so overwhelmed was he by her actions. This mistress was great! Despite parts of his brain regularly disengaging during sex, he knew one thing with utter clarity: He wanted to meet her again!

"Aah!"

The woman spasmed and pushed herself against him, totally blocking his nose and mouth. He gave one more straining stab of his tongue and she folded. Gasping and twitching, she fell off of him and rode out her orgasm, the fingers of one hand still buried in his hair. He felt every twitch and spasm. It was glorious.

After what seemed like quite a long time, though it was probably only a few minutes, both his breathing and hers were calming down.

"You're good," the woman said.

He smiled.

"Come here," she ordered and reached out a hand to pull him in. He gasped; she wanted to cuddle!

He lay there stiffly, at first, not sure how to deal with the startling behaviour of this woman. But then, some dam inside him broke and he leaned into her embrace. She softly caressed his back as she held him, and he cherished every touch.

Finally she sighed and pushed him away. "I fear I shall run out of time without having given you what I promised," she said regretfully and got up.

"You can always come back," he volunteered and was shocked by his own cheek.

But she only laughed. "I might, at that!"

Then she got all business-like and ordered him into position to be tied up. He readily followed her lead and soon he was trussed up on his knees, with his hands forward, cuffs tied closely to the headboard, while his legs were spread as far apart as they would go without pain.

His arse stuck up, ready for her use.

_Smack._ She was hitting him again, this time with her bare hands. He noticed that a few of her earlier hits would leave little welts. He appreciated it. And he especially appreciated her hitting those same spots again, now.

"Ngah!"

She kept spanking him for a good while, and he moaned and squirmed under her hand. But finally, she rested both hands against his burning cheeks and pronounced him 'ready'.

She backed off a bit and he heard a familiar smacking sound: rubber against skin. She was pulling on sanitary gloves.

Had he been a woman, he probably would have been wet with excitement. As it was, despite the ring, a few happy pearls were leaving the tip of his erect penis. He knew what was next, and he absolutely trusted this woman to make it good.

Oh, and she did!

Despite her earlier pronouncement of time pressure, she slowly and deliberately opened him up, played with his prostate for what was probably a good half hour. Finally, though, he heard rubber smacking again, and this time, he knew it was a condom.

"Ready?" her teasing voice asked him.

"Yes, Mistress, oh yes!"

Slowly, she pushed in. It really was the good stuff: it moulded itself to his channel, soft, but firm enough to give him a wonderful sense of fullness. He groaned. "Pure magic," he whispered.

"I assure you it's not," she said, mildly puzzled.

He laughed a throaty laugh. "I mean, it feels too good to be true," he clarified.

"Oh."

Both of them stayed immobile for a moment, pondering the ramifications of that little exchange. But then, the woman decided not to pay it any mind now and enjoy what she had come for.

She started moving.

He met her thrust for thrust, at least as far as his bonds would allow. He could tell that she loved this feeling. A strong, healthy young man underneath her, writhing, completely at her mercy and loving every minute of it. It must be such a heady rush of power.

Long minutes she rode him, ten, twenty, maybe more, until he was close to a break-down for being forbidden to come. She pushed on a little while longer, until tears were leaking out from under his blindfold. Then, she laid a hand to the ring around his base and opened it.

"Come," the bedroom voice whispered.

He did.

* * *

A little while later, the woman released him from his bonds; only the blindfold remained. He lowered his head submissively and listened to the sounds she made while dressing herself. He bit his lip, unsure. He'd never asked these questions before, but this woman fascinated him. Who was she? Would she come back to book him again?

"M-mistress," he started, cursing his own insecurity. "Will I see you again?"

The noises stopped, and he could feel her eyes on him. "You have yet to see me," she stated calmly.

"Yes," he acknowledged. "But will you be back?"

The clicking of her heels marked her progress towards him.

"Would you want me to?"

"Yes."

Silence reigned for a minute or two. Then, gentle fingers opened the knot on the blindfold. Blue eyes met green. Both pairs widened simultaneously in recognition.

"YOU?!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments? Guesses? Please let me know what you think! ^^


	2. Memories

When the Boy-Who-Lived vanished mysteriously the summer following his fifth year, right after Voldemort had proved his continued existence by showing up at the ministry, Rita had been frantic. Nobody had any information on his whereabouts, not even Fudge or Dumbledore. She knew, since she had spent countless hours spying on both of them. However, what these hours had also shown her was both men's callous disregard for the boy's life and well-being.

With Fudge, that was nothing new. Dumbledore, however, had surprised her, despite everything she already knew about him.

"It is a good thing that Voldemort believes Harry to be the only one who can defeat him," she had heard Dumbledore tell his potions master. "Since we lost you as a spy when you refused to make that vow to Narcissa, we have no way to further distract him from our actions. If he believes us defeated with Harry's death, he may become over-confident and that will allow us to win. Now, as for retrieving that cup..."

Death.

Rita had flown away from that conversation too shaken up to set to writing at once. Instead, she had reviewed what she thought she knew about Harry Potter and had come up lacking. His abusive childhood had made him fall into Dumbledore's hands as an obedient little soldier just as she'd always thought; however, contrary to her expectations, Dumbledore had not intended Potter as his successor in manipulating the whole British wizarding world; instead, he had set him up as a _sacrific__e!_ Rita had been barking up the wrong tree for several years! 

It hurt.

Rita prided herself on being vicious only towards those who thoroughly deserved it; mainly the incompetent Ministry – as much as the Daily Prophet allowed her to, anyway – and Dumbledore, along with his most fervent supporters: The Weasleys, Hagrid, Snape... and Harry Potter. Only now it turned out that Potter himself was no danger, but was in fact  _in_ danger from Dumbledore! 

At that point, Rita decided to do her best to find out the whereabouts of the Boy-Who-Lived, and bring him home – dead or alive. Somewhere along the line, she stopped considering her profit in how she worded her articles about Dumbledore's machinations. Unfortunately, her open attacks on both Dumbledore and Fudge led to her unemployment, and without any of her precious truthful articles even going to print.

Rita was nothing if not resourceful. Born and raised in the muggle world, she found a job there and continued working as a journalist, questioning the mysterious deaths and disappearances of muggles all over Great Britain and generally making herself a nuisance to the Ministry of Magic.

However, no matter how hard she worked, no matter whom she spied on, she never managed to discover the truth about what happened to Harry Potter.

To find him here, acting the part – very convincingly, she might add! - of a luxury prostitute in a muggle establishment, completely blew her mind.

"How on earth...?!"

Pleading green eyes met hers, and the cuffed wrists were extended towards her. "Please, whatever you decide to write about me,  _please_ – can you open these?"

Rita startled. The situation had been confusing before, but now it bordered on surreal. "Why don't you do it yourself? Have you lost the key?"

Equally confused eyes met hers. "Don't you know what these are?"

She inspected the cuffs a little more closely, but other than the fact that there was no lock, so the cuffs had to be custom made or magical, the significance Potter apparently assigned to them escaped her. "Wrist cuffs, obviously; I do not know what else they could be."

"It's not common knowledge...," Potter whispered, seeming totally flattened by this realization. Curious, she gave him the time to process this news, hoping he would explain the odd cuffs to her in his own time. Her uncharacteristic show of patience was rewarded when Potter once more met her gaze. However, what he had to say threw her for another loop.

"They are a dark artefact. They bind my magic. Please, will you try to take them off?"

Rita stared at him uncomprehendingly. "You mean you cannot do magic with these on? At all?"

Slowly, the green-eyed man scooted away from her and it was obvious that he feared to have said too much. His admission had left him wide open for attack, should she choose to hurt him. It was clear that he expected her to, had only let slip so much information out of pure despair; and she could not fault him for his mistrust in her, it was thoroughly deserved.

However, she had changed in the past seven years and he needed to know that.

"I will not hurt you," she said, in a voice she had never used towards him before. This was neither Rita the Mistress nor Rita the Evil Reporter. This was Rita the woman, the one who wanted nothing more than to make up to him her mistakes of the past. "Please show them to me once more."

Mistrust was still clearly written in his eyes, but lacking better options, Potter slowly approached her again and held out one of his wrists. Rita raised her wand, ignoring Potter's flinch, and spoke.

_"Alohomora."_

Both of them were utterly shocked when the cuff obediently clinked open and fell off his wrist.

_"Alohomora?"_ Potter weakly questioned, his eyes showing a world of hurt. "All this time, I could have regained my magic if only someone had spoken  _one damn simple Alohomora_ ?!"

He was screaming at the end, and the rage his voice carried was so profound that Rita took several steps back before she caught herself. Still, there was no magic in the air despite the man's raging emotions. "Your other wrist...," she said quietly.

Angrily, he thrust it towards her and she removed the second cuff. Potter stared at the two cuffs lying open on the floor for a long moment. Then he raised both hands and without either wand or words used his magic to obliterate the hateful devices.

Potter staggered over to the bed, collapsed upon it and began to cry with heavy, heart-breaking sobs.

Several minutes passed.

Rita was still standing in the middle of the room, feeling extraordinarily out of her depth, when a knock sounded at the door. "Open at once," a harsh voice commanded. Rita looked at Potter, but he did not seem to have noticed. Uncertainly, she put away her wand, then opened the door.

In came the manager, his face resembling a dark storm cloud. The man glared at her, eyes promising pain, before he went over to the bed to lightly touch Potter's shoulder. "Doe, are you alright? John, dammit, talk to me!" He was shaking Potter now, who remained unresponsive.

The man turned to glare at Rita once more. "Pray tell, Ms. Kelley, what have you done to reduce John to this state?"

Rita shifted from one foot to the other like a girl caught with her hand in the cookie jar. Despite knowing that she had not caused Potter's break-down, she knew she had hurt him in the past and was not at all comfortable with being asked now what she had done to him. Also, she did not know how much to reveal as the man seemed oblivious to who Potter actually was.

"We... we know each other from... before," she started carefully. "It was a shock to both of us when we recognized each other. Obviously, he took it much harder than I did."

The man stared at her with wide eyes. "You mean he remembered?!"

* * *

A while later, Rita was seated in the manager's coop beside the man, while Potter was sleeping fitfully on a narrow bed in the next room. She had told 'Jeff' that she knew Harry from when he was a student, and that she was fully prepared to help him overcome his apparent memory loss (though personally, she thought his memory seemed to be in fine working order). Jeff, aided by some just-so legal (since they only worked on muggles) gullibility charms, bought her story and seemed to trust in her sincerity in wanting to help the man. Rita sipped a little of her tea while Jeff told her what he knew about 'John Doe'.

"It was some three years ago that Robins first told me about him," he began. "Robins often goes scouting for me in the seedier areas of town. He stumbled upon rumours of a new guy, a young one who supposedly took disgustingly low pay and would do pretty much anything without restraint. The other boys in the area hated him because he was bad for business; some of them had already let him know exactly what they thought of his low prices. But despite the black eye and broken wrist, he was seen walking the streets again the next night.

"Robins got curious and found the man. He took him to a cheap hotel and found out that he had literally no limits. No matter what Robins did to him, he just calmly accepted it, even failing to protest when Robins began choking him and did not stop when the man's eyes fluttered closed.

"Robins concluded that the man had a death wish.

"We reported him to the police, whom we collaborate with at times; only to get a nasty shock. The police knew about the man, but told us to leave him be as they had done all they could. They explained how they had found him, naked and confused, and brought him in. The doctors had diagnosed shock and assumed amnesia - caused by the shock. He could answer some questions, but totally shut down on others and failed to give a single coherent answer. Eventually, they gave up on trying to find out who or what had broken his mind and put him in witness protection, despite not knowing if anyone was even after him; an act of kindness, I suppose. He was given a small apartment, a new identity as 'John Doe' and the opportunity to repeat his A-level exams. A therapist was assigned to his care.

"However, he apparently ran away after some time and was found in downtown London, trying to get men to take him home for sex. He was brought back and questioned, and it was revealed that John has either a disturbingly high libido or those bastards' conditioning was so thorough that he believes he _has_ to have sex in order to survive. Either way, it was not long before he ran off again to find very dubious sexual partners. That was when the law pretty much gave up on him. His exact age was unknown at the time, but he was believed to be of age, so if he chose to leave the police's and his therapist's care and get fucked to death in a seedy alley, there wasn't all that much they could legally do about it. He appeared lucid enough most times that they could not get a ruling claiming him _non compos mentis_, and he himself stated that he 'just wished to be left alone', and that was the end of it. 

"Some weeks later, Robins ran across the man again as he was dumped out of a slowly rolling car. John looked a mess and it was obvious he had been raped. Now we might not be the most upstanding members of society, but even Robins has a heart. So do I, in point of fact. Robins brought John to a hospital to get his injuries fixed and for a general health check, which I paid for; once he was stable, I went to talk to him and offer him a job here at _Exotic Dreams_. He accepted.

"John never talks much about his past, but I get the feeling that he is as happy here as it's possible for a man with his experiences to be."

Rita silently sipped at her tea as she thought about 'John Doe's' story. How had Harry Potter come to have an over-active libido – and a set of magic-inhibiting cuffs? Had Dumbledore done this to Potter when he no longer needed him? There was little she would put past the man at this point, but even for him, it seemed a little extreme. Fudge, then? Or He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, after all? Though if it was the latter, wouldn't he have bragged about it to his Death Eaters? Why had none of them talked about Potter's fate?

With a sinking feeling, she remembered that the judges had not been interested in Harry Potter. There was not a single Death Eater trial at the end of the war in which a Death Eater had been asked the whereabouts of Harry Potter. When it had turned out that Harry Potter had not been, after all, the promised Saviour, everyone had lost interest. He simply wasn't important enough to the authorities any more, so no one had bothered to ask. Maybe He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had gotten to Potter, yet no-one had cared to find out.

"I think I know who kidnapped him and did this to him," she said quietly. "And if so, our legal system has  _a lot_ to answer for." 

Her quiet fury convinced Jeff that he had made the right choice in trusting this strange, yet alluring woman. If anyone could help John, it was her.

* * *

John awoke bleary-eyed from a fitful sleep to the sound of voices quietly talking in the next room. Blinking rapidly, he got his contacts back in place. He'd have to wear glasses for a few days, sleeping with contacts was never something his eyes forgave him easily. He remembered why he had fallen asleep wearing his contacts and focused on the voices next-door.

He was shocked to hear Jeff telling Skeeter - of all people! - his story. But then, he supposed, she was the only magical being to actually have helped him. If her poisoned quill concocted another vile story as a result, it was still worth it. Now that he had his magic back, he could... he could....

Feeling overwhelmed by all the new possibilities that suddenly spread out before him, John had to lie back and breathe in and out deeply a few times.

He managed to calm himself just in time to hear Skeeter quietly cursing the Ministry. Huh. Hadn't she always been writing _for_ the Ministry? After all, that's what the Daily Prophet was, a pro-Ministry rag, wasn't it? But then, he supposed, people could change in the course of seven years. He certainly had. He had no idea what was going on in the wizarding world at the moment, and it was even possible that the current Ministry was a good one. John somehow doubted it, but one should never give up hope, right?

Slowly, he got to his feet, put on the pair of jeans Jeff had laid out for him, and ambled over to the manager's room. The conversation had come to a stop as Jeff dealt with a customer, and when he turned back from his little front window, he looked surprised to find John standing there, eyes a bit nervous, but otherwise calm. "John, good to see you up and about! Have you calmed down? Are... are your memories back?"

"They were never really gone," he quietly admitted.

"They were... what?" Jeff looked at him, dumb-founded.

"They weren't gone," John repeated. "Only it didn't make sense to talk about them; my story is way too fantastic for anyone to believe. Witness the magic cuffs," he added sarcastically.

Jeff frowned; that had indeed been a well of endless confusion. Nothing the police, a certified engineer and even a professional welder did had been able to make a dent in those cuffs, much less remove them. It had driven them all halfway insane, but eventually they had admitted defeat and John had been forced to keep the nasty remnant of his unpleasant past.

Jeff blinked, astonished; the cuffs were gone! "How did you finally get them off??"

John smirked, a very rare sight. "I found a witch to break the spell." He grinned at the woman. Rita, for her part, made a mental note to check if any recordings existed of the incident and if so, make sure they were conveniently malfunctioning. 

Jeff pouted. "Fine, keep your secrets. But please say: Will you leave now? Or are you staying?"

He'd always thought that the day John remembered his past would be the day the young man left to reclaim his former life, or at least go to court against those who had taken it from him. However, hearing now that there had never been any amnesia involved, he wasn't so sure any more.

John sat down at the table with them and glanced at the woman nervously. "I don't know yet. I think I ought to at least get some information about... before," he said cautiously. "Once I have that, I can decide if there is anything left for me to return to."

He looked so sad that Jeff, not for the first time, felt an immediate need to cuddle him. He was a rough man, ready and able to deal with anyone trying to mess with his business, and he had no compunctions about using other people's bodies for his gain. That being said, he also easily formed attachments and, little though he usually showed it, he cared about all of the sex workers in his employ. From an ethical point of view, his entire line of work should probably be illegal. He didn't care. He didn't consider himself a bad person. As long as what he did was legal, he felt he wasn't doing any wrong.

Besides, he felt mighty good about his strategy of collecting pretty strays off the streets, and after having them thoroughly checked for diseases, offering them a better life with tolerable working conditions. It was amazing what some of those young people had to offer given the correct incentive. The idea that his strays' options maybe ought not to be limited to a kinder environment for selling their bodies never even entered his mind. They were so much better off with him as their employer, what could possibly be wrong with that?

John had been one such stray, and what a talent he had turned out to be! Granted, Jeff had to explain to him when to say 'stop' and 'no', as the young man seemed to have no concept of the limitations on a human body. John simply did not seem capable of telling whether a certain act would leave him with a bruise or a broken bone. It was as though he had never had time to assimilate the results of his rapes, before. Jeff had assumed that someone had been seriously messing with the boy's mind in the past and left it at that.

After some education, John had turned out to be fairly enthusiastic about his work, and quite talented in whichever role Jeff required him to play. After a fairly short training period, he had let John out to play with the customers, and he'd been a complete success. Jeff would be very sad to see him go.

He'd made it a strict policy never to keep his girls and boys from moving on, though. After all, they all eventually got too old for the job. Best if they left on their own terms before they became liabilities.

"Is there anything you need from me?" Jeff asked. John had bought him so many satisfied customers he could afford to help the man a bit with the next part of his life. Finding and holding a job was never easy if you had to consider what to put on your CV for the years you spent as a whore.

"Can you hold me tonight?" John asked shyly.

Jeff chuckled. "My pleasure."

"What will you do now?" the woman asked.

Jeff watched John as he answered. The man's brow creased in concentration. "First, I will need to sleep on this. It is hard to believe that after seven years of... well... I am finally free again!"

The woman nodded understandingly, while Jeff stored away the information that the poor man had been imprisoned for an entire four years before the police found him, and that he had never felt truly free while working for him.

"Who was it?" the woman asked, hesitantly.

"You know who," was the cryptic answer, though Jeff got the impression that there was more to it than he understood.

The woman seemed to understand at any rate, for she appeared... relieved?

John seemed to have noticed, as well. "You seem happy about this."

The woman made a chagrined face. "I am not happy, of course, that you were kidnapped at all. However, the fact that it was  _him_ and not one of the other players makes me hope that all is not lost yet in our world."

Suddenly, John appeared extremely focused. "Is he dead, then?"

The woman nodded. "Yes, he was destroyed three years ago."

John nodded, and although a weight seemed to fall off his shoulders, he also appeared saddened by the news. "Then it was all a lie. The old man lied to me, he said I was the only one who..." He trailed off, sounding defeated, yet not truly surprised. "I suppose he has always lied to me. Tell me, Rita: Did they even look for me, at all?"

The blue eyes of Ms. Pearl Kelley, who apparently had as many names as John did, turned hard and cold. "What do you think, Mr... Doe?"

John simply nodded again. "Just a weapon," he sighed.

"No," the woman corrected him. "Just a  _decoy._ "

A sudden rage seemed to rise within John, strong enough to nearly manifest as a physical presence. Jeff imagined he could feel it shaking the entire building. "A distraction. _A D__ECOY_???"

Reining in the anger seemed to be a strenuous exercise, yet somehow, John managed. "Explain," he said slowly. "Explain everything."

"I will," the woman promised, "though maybe not here."

"Statute?" he asked curtly, yet another incomprehensible comment that seemed to make perfect sense only to John; and to the woman, who nodded.

John grumbled, but acquiesced to her wishes. "Will you trade your side of the story for mine?" he asked, suddenly appearing nervous again.

The woman looked guilty for a moment, then sat up straight and confident again. "I don't work for that rag any more, and I don't even know if they would print it," she said, rendering him even more insecure. But then she smiled. "I will, however, gladly trade stories with you, if only for the satisfaction of personal curiosity. On both our parts."

He extended his hand and they shook on it.

After the woman left, Jeff looked at John with a mock-scolding face. "Is there any part of this cryptic conversation that you feel free to explain to me?"

John laughed, sounding truly care-free for the first time in three years. "I can tell you my name! It's Harry Potter. Pleased to meet you!"

* * *

_3 years earlier_

  
  


Harry lay on his bed, feeling fairly relaxed. He'd had the whole morning to himself and he was feeling ready to do something new; however, he was not so far gone as to wish for company.

He wondered how long he had already been here. The first months had gone by in a haze of pain and humiliation, with never enough energy left to even notice whether it was light or dark outside the windows. After the Death Eaters considered him properly _taugh__t,_ they had eased off. Now he was only tortured during the visits of the more sadistic criminals, while some of the other men were merely out for a good time and some even enjoyed giving him pleasure in return; of course, the countless aphrodisiacs he'd been fed during his 'training' period, some of which seemed to have become a permanent addition to his bloodstream, helped with that.

So it was that he was actually looking forward to certain days on which he knew his favourite Masters were to make an appearance. He still thought he'd be happier left to his own devices, but having these men in his room guaranteed that there was no room for a visit from the sick psychos.

Today, he knew that Carolton and Westley were going to use his services, which usually ended up being fairly pleasant for him, as well.

Harry sat up straight when he heard footsteps approaching his door. Hastily, he moved from the bed to the floor, where he assumed the correct position as it had been beaten into him: on his knees, legs spread so as to display his private parts to the visitor, hands clasping elbows behind his back, head bowed to show his subservience. A small smile was waiting on his lips for today's first visitor.

But it died when the door opened and instead of Carolton, two men in red robes entered his room.

Aurors.

Harry raised his head and looked at them in utter confusion. "What...?"

One of the men stepped towards him, grasped his chin and sneered. "Would you look at that, a Death Eater whore." His colleague sniggered nastily. "Did they pay you well for your services, little whore?" he asked, contempt clearly audible in his tone. His firm grip around Harry's chin did not allow for an answer, though Harry would have loved to tell the man that in fact, he was not here by choice.

Did these men not recognize him? At one point the whole world seemed to have known Harry Potter, even when his scar was covered by his messy hair. Had so much changed in the past however many years? And what were the aurors doing here anyway? Was Voldemort defeated? Did that mean Harry was free?

But who could have killed the Dark Lord? The prophecy said...

A hard slap ripped Harry out of his thoughts. "I _said_," a dangerous voice spat at him, "_where is your wand?_" 

His chin finally released, Harry answered quickly. "I don't have one." His own had been left behind when he was kidnapped from the park near Privet Drive, and he had not been given one since. Not that it mattered, he would not have been able to do magic even with a wand. On that thought, Harry raised his wrists with the magic-binding cuffs to the auror. "Please, will you...?"

But the man barely heard him. "Oh dear," he remarked to his colleague, "not a whore after all. It seems the Death Eaters were keeping a muggle toy."

The other man frowned. "What do we do with him, then? We did not bring a licensed Obliviator."

"Does it matter?" the first man laughed. "Who would believe a whore like him if he told stories of an evil, magical world, anyway? I say let him leave with his memory intact. I hardly think it matters."

His colleague nodded reluctantly.

Harry was still busy processing the fact that there were aurors standing in his room and that very likely, someone had killed Voldemort despite the prophecy. Thus his reaction time was not all it should have been. The concept of the aurors discarding him without releasing him from the cuffs very slowly permeated through the chaos in his mind, only really hitting him when he was pushed through the mansion's great two-winged doors.

"What?! But you can't... you have to help me, please! I- I'm not..."

Bang.

The door to Riddle Manor closed behind him with a loud and very final noise, the manor immediately vanishing from his sight the moment he exited the wards. Harry was left naked, confused, and still magic-less at the side of the road outside a very conservative little muggle village.

Never during the last four years had he felt this helpless.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...Anyone still here? If you're still reading this now that I've revealed the pairing: a warm welcome to this angsty, mildly cracky, kinky shit-show! :P   
Oh, by the way: This may officially be Harry/Rita, but all of the explicit sex from this point onward is male/male; some past, non-consensual scenes, and some present, with consent. Also, this is one of those fics that grew a whole lot of plot out of what started out as a pwp oneshot; I hope you won't be too disappointed by that.   
Next up: the Weasleys. As always, please let me know what you think!


	3. Their Toy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: This chapter has some detailed depictions of (past) rape and torture. Read at your own discretion.

  
  


Charlie Weasley loved the Wizarding World, he really did. But by Merlin, it was small! Beyond the Prophet, the Quibbler, Witch Weekly (and Teen Witch Weekly), as well as a couple of pretentious magazines for supposedly upper-class men, there did not seem to be any topics that had found a publisher in wizarding England or even the Americas – much less in the even more reclusive and conservative Romanian wizarding community.

So for some of his interests, he had no choice but to find his reading materials in the muggle world. He knew that some wizards were kinky as old knickers, so he blamed the distinct lack of proper publications squarely on the inferior numbers of wizards as compared to muggles – and not on the generally more backwards mainstream culture.

Charlie whistled happily as he roamed the shelves to pick up his favourite monthly American magazine. It always had some nice stories, discussions, facts, and a handful of pretty pictures. Well alright, not so much pretty as erotic. He supposed most people wouldn't consider scenes of a homoerotic BDSM nature 'pretty'. Still, he enjoyed them well enough.

Leaving town in the direction of the hidden dragon sanctuary, he started leafing through the mag when a picture caught his eye. The look of it did not fit a muggle publication at all. Charlie frowned. This had the fuzzy edges of a picture taken from a pensieved memory and – yes, there in the lower right-hand corner, it even bore a Verificator's seal!

Why would anyone get a memory Verified, but then merely use it to print a non-moving picture in a muggle fetish mag? Verification was expensive, and muggles did not even know what it was all about. So why bother?

Charlie sat down on a tree stump beside the road and started to really look at the picture. He shivered.

The still image showed a naked young man kneeling on a rough, dark wood floor, hands cuffed behind his back, head down. The scene was captured from behind the young man, prominently featuring his taut behind and the thin, yet well-defined muscles of his shoulders. So far, nothing to complain about. However, beyond the kneeling young man, the boots and cloak ends of the men he was bowing to were just so visible in the picture. This was what gave Charlie the creeps.

Those were Death Eater robes.

Turning to the accompanying article, Charlie began to read.

  
  


_Their Toy_

  
  


_ On July 31 st , 1996, a young man was kidnapped from his relatives' home by evil dark wizards, who had chosen him as a target because of the legacy of the dead parents he had never known.  _

_It is the dubious pleasure of this now not-so-young man to tell you of his adventures as Their Toy..._

  
  


What followed was a fairly racy, darkly erotic description of wrongs done to a helpless young man by a group of evil men he was completely powerless to refuse.

Any other time, Charlie would have gotten a lot of enjoyment from such a tale. But not with the Verificator's seal underneath the picture. This was not a made-up story at all, someone had really suffered through this!

Or, at least, someone had really knelt naked in front of a row of people in Death Eaters' robes. Charlie cautioned himself not to go jumping to conclusions. The story itself was not verified, only the picture. That did look bad, but it could have been taken just yesterday, simply with a row of people dressed up as Death Eaters. The picture did not have to be related to the story by anything more than the editor's fancy that had put them right next to each other.

Still, the entire set-up was thoroughly disturbing.

* * *

Charlie had completely pushed the unsettling Verified picture from his thoughts by the time another one was printed in the following month's edition of his magazine.

In this picture, _Their Toy_ was facing the camera. However, only the young man's mouth twisted in a rictus of pain was visible, since the rest of his head was hidden by what appeared to be an oddly shaped, skin-tight mask. Blood was dripping sluggishly out from underneath the mask. Meanwhile the young man was clutching desperately at the bedpost his wrist cuffs were tied to, while once again part of a man in a black garment that looked suspiciously like a Death Eater's robe was visible behind him. The presumed Death Eater was wielding a wicked-looking singletail that cut bloody stripes out of the young man's naked back. The spray of blood from the latest hit was actually visible in the picture, little droplets captured in one agonizingly precise shot.

It would have been a gloriously artistic picture, were it not for the presence, once again, of a Verification seal in the lower right-hand corner of the image. "PV Lloyd," the inscription read, in cursive letters with the mild glow only visible to magical eyes that came from a Verificator's seal. _Pensieve Verified by Lloyd._ The seal could not be faked and clearly validated the pensieved memory, and all images derived thereof, as authentic. This picture had not been photoshopped, nor had the underlying memory been tampered with. This was the real deal.

And it was pretty horrible.

Charlie cursed whoever had done this. The picture was one he may have enjoyed, as doubtlessly thousands of innocent muggles the world over were doing just now, had he not known it was _real_. This knowledge, however, perverted what was to his mind an otherwise fairly innocent pleasure into something painfully wrong. Charlie was alright with fantasizing about rape and torture, but hell, he was _not_ alright with people really doing it! Rape play was all fine and dandy between consenting, informed parties. But that was not what this picture showed.

Nor was it what the words next to the picture described. Horrified, Charlie read how "Their Toy" described the session this image was taken from – the sensationalist wording somehow making it all the more horrible.

  
  


_...Their Toy was shown the spikes on the inside of the mask before it was put on him. Sometimes, Their Toy wondered what was crueller: to be blindfolded, helplessly waiting for the next attack, not knowing what it was; or to see it coming all too clearly, yet just as helpless to do anything about it. He could never quite decide, as in either case, he was helpless before them, and he ended up hurt, humiliated, and broken..._

* * *

The next month, Charlie did not buy the magazine.

Then he turned around and bought both the September and October issue the following month. He did not _want_ to see more pictures of a helpless victim being tortured by Death Eaters. Nor did he want to read what some seedy author had cooked up, quite possibly from watching the actual memories. This was a violation of the poor victim's privacy!

Charlie did not doubt for one moment that the young man in these pictures was dead. Those were real Death Eaters – the October issue even showed a Dark Mark on one's arm -, and _Their Toy_ was exactly that to them: a toy, not a real person. No one escaped from that sort of situation alive. So while the young man may not be alive to be humiliated by images of his torture being printed for entertainment in a kink magazine, it was still a brutal desecration of his memory.

And it was horrible knowing that people the world over were getting off to these pictures.

No, Charlie wanted nothing to do with this. And yet, he was no more able to look away than if he were watching a Quidditch accident. He had to read the stories, had to look at those cruel pictures. _Someone_ who empathised with the victim should read this, someone who _understood_ that these were _real_!

* * *

Charlie went home to the Burrow for Christmas.

Family gatherings at the Burrow had not been the same since Ginny had died.

Longbottom had certainly done the world a favour when he killed the Dark Snake. Charlie only wished the man could have done so before Voldemort killed his little sister. And Harry, he supposed.

Voldemort had not killed Ginny personally, but she had fallen to a Death Eater's curse when Hogwarts had been broken into at the end of her 5th year. Rumour had it that Draco Malfoy had let them in, but of course, accusations against the Malfoys never quite made it to court, and the blond aristocrats always came out on top.

Charlie hated them, deeply, utterly hated them. He sometimes fantasized about killing the evil bastards, maybe choke Lucius Malfoy with his long blond hair; or ram his snake-headed cane down his son's throat until it came out the other end.

Charlie was not a violent man by nature. He was a sadist, true, and he worked with dragons, which was fairly exciting and dangerous; but his character still tended towards the calm and peaceful.

Except when it came to Malfoys.

So as he made the journey home to England for the holidays, Charlie was in a pretty explosive mood over the Christmas edition of his magazine. Finally, much like a long-awaited Christmas present, a Death Eater's face had been shown in one of the pictures! But it hadn't gone with the shock of blond hair trailing off to the side Charlie had spotted in an earlier picture, but belonged on a Death Eater who'd been dead since the Dark Lord's fall.

The picture itself was, once again, a cruel work of art. _Their Toy_ was shown spread out on a bed, with McNair brutally fucking him. The young man's face was turned away from the camera, but his hands, clenched in the bedsheets with a white-knuckled grip, as well as his unnaturally arching back bespoke his pain.

The accompanying article described, in very fine detail, the mechanics of using a 'dark spell that stimulates the pain receptors' to make a victim clench around his rapist, thus bringing him greater pleasure._ Crucio_ mixed with rape.

It was sick.

But while this latest chapter of the anonymous Death Eater victim's biography saddened and horrified Charlie, the fact that the face of one of the torturing Death Eaters was finally shown and it was  _not _ Malfoy's made him raging mad.

Verified pensieve memories were not admissible in court. The purebloods had vetoed that idea right out of the British laws; it would have made too many of their intrigues and underhanded bargains difficult, to say the least. They needed convenient loopholes in all the laws to make sure they could buy their way out of any mess. Thus taking Veritaserum in court was possible on a voluntary basis, yet could not be forced; and Verified pensieve memories were not admissible at all.

Still, people knew. Verificators made good money from settling disputes out of court. Married partners suspected of cheating proved their innocence by presenting their partner with a full-length Verified pensieve memory of the afternoon in question spent shopping with a friend rather than the secretive meeting with a lover on the side their partner had accused them of. Business partners presented each other with Verified records of their previous transactions, to assure each other of their truthful dealings. People who suspected having been obliviated used Verification to check if their memories of a certain day or week had been tampered with.

People held Verificators in the highest esteem, because what they did  _worked._

If Lucius Malfoy were shown as a raping Death Eater in a  _Verified_ pensieve picture... Even if it was in a  muggle magazine, Charlie was sure the ramifications would be far-reaching indeed. 

* * *

Charlie was not to know it, but Lucius Malfoy was of the exact same opinion.

However, he had a hard time preventing such a disaster.

Verificators were not only highly respected, but also generally unable to speak about their work. Vows they took at the very start of their careers ensured that they never betrayed a customer's private business. The only information they were able to offer other people than their customers was that a certain memory a person presented them with had indeed been Verified by them. They could identify their own seal and confirm it had not been tampered with – but nothing else.

So assaulting the well-known Irish Verificator Lloyd would get Malfoy precisely nowhere. The man did not own the memories. Nor would he be able to tell Malfoy who did, or how many more there were; or how many pictures had been taken of those memories – and more importantly, whether Malfoy's face was visible in any of those pictures.

The only thing Malfoy could possibly accomplish by approaching Lloyd was to draw unwanted attention to himself.

Nor was the muggle publisher of the magazine of any use to him. According to Malfoy's American contacts, the man had never met the person who created the _Their Toy_ column, he merely got sent the finished product. The address it was sent from did not exist, and the owner of the account he sent the payment to was listed as a resident of Timbuktu – with an obviously fake name. Clearly, a wizard had his hand in confusing the muggle system here; but the mix of magical and muggle obfuscation made the original author impossible to track.

And Malfoy just  _knew_ that if he got the magazine closed down, another one would suddenly start featuring the column. Also, the same rule applied as to the Verificator: if the wrong people noticed that Lucius Malfoy had a hand in shutting down a  muggle magazine, attention would be drawn to his connections to  _Their Toy_ – more so since the magazine was based in America, and people over there had a tendency to over-react to British meddling. He did not want that. 

Malfoy could only hope that the wrong people did not read this magazine. After all, it was a  muggle publication, and an American one at that.  _He_ 'd only seen it because his son had found it while out clubbing. How many British wizarding readers could it possibly have?

* * *

While Lucius Malfoy was not having a fun Christmas this year, Charlie Weasley soon put his worries over the bizarre column aside and enjoyed the closeness of his parents and brothers. Molly was always a little tearful at family gatherings these days; however, it could never be said she wasn't visibly happy to have them all in her home, for her to feed, cuddle, scold and just generally mother. Even Percy was there. Ginny's death had been like a wake-up call for him and the stuck-up desk jockey had given way to the much more empathetic little brother Charlie remembered from their childhoods.

Of course, the twins were there as well, causing mayhem as usual. They focused more on him and Bill nowadays, though; Ron had been given an extended break from being a prank victim after Harry vanished and Ginny died.

Ron hadn't dealt well with Harry's disappearance. They had been best friends since their first year, and when Dumbledore told them that there could be no doubt that Harry was dead at Voldemort's hands, it shook Ron's world. His budding relationship with Hermione was torn apart under the stress they were both suffering.

* * *

"Alright guys, return it now," Charlie said dryly, holding up the leaf of lettuce that used to be the latest edition of the magazine that had been giving him such headaches this past half a year or so. He was not so fond of it any more, but neither was he willing to part with it.

"Sure," Fred answered.

"After we've read it," George said, waving the actual magazine.

_Switching spell_, Charlie realized, _not transfiguration._

"You don't want to read that," Charlie said slowly. He wouldn't have minded so much were they not at the Burrow. But if Mum got wind of his being gay and thus _not _likely to give her grandchildren, ever – he did not think that would go over so well.

"Oh yes we do," George replied, glancing fondly at the cover. "We used to read this, but haven't had time to go get one all year."

"Shop's always so busy, we never get out early enough to hit the muggle sellers," Fred added.

Charlie blinked. "Wait, you're both...?"

"Blessed with many diverse interests," George supplied. He winked at Charlie, then the twins took off.

Charlie sighed. He wondered if they'd notice the Verificator's seal.

* * *

It turned out that they did. But they also noticed something else, something that Charlie couldn't have recognized himself, having only met the young man once or twice. Still, even they didn't know him as well as their younger brother did, having shared a dorm and all.

So they completely shocked Charlie by bringing the magazine down to dinner and slapping it on the table in front of Ron, opened to the latest _Their Toy_ picture.

"Please tell us that's not who we think it is!" Fred implored.

Ron blinked. Then he grudgingly pushed aside his plate and looked at the picture. "Guys, why are you showing me a gay hard po- Oh Merlin, no!" Suddenly, Ron lost all colour underneath his freckles. "Harry!!!"


	4. Moving On

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter ends in a cliffhanger. I promise it will all turn out well, though!

"Are you quite sure you want to do this?" Rita asked earnestly.

Harry smiled at her. "Thank you for caring," he said. "Yes, I want to do this. I want to face those bastards, and if possible, see them at least cast out of society for what they did to me. This is the best way."

"You could still try official channels, you know."

"We've been over this. Neither Dumbledore nor the Ministry care enough what happened to me. I am an inconvenience now. They might as well do me in themselves if they find me still alive. Also, since pensieved memories are not admissible in court, what proof do I have? They might as well suggest that I did all that of my own free will. After all, if they ask me under Veritaserum whether I enjoy sex and go seeking it out on my own, the answer is a resounding yes. They may not bother to ask me if the reason for this is the result of too many aphrodisiacs forced down my throat by the Death Eaters. So I'll come out looking worse than ever. I don't need that."

Rita sighed. Harry was right, they had been over all of this many times. And there really was no way to predict what an official accusation would do.

This way was safer. They were not making accusations, merely telling a story. In a muggle magazine at that. And since Pensieve Verification was not recognized in court, even the appearance of powerful politicians in these pictures could not be called libel, since they were not actually claiming – at least, not by ministry standards – that the story was true, or that the people in the pictures _were_ those very politicians.

Christmas had only been the start. Every month since, a new face had been published. So far, all of them had belonged on Death Eaters that were already dead. But today, the magazine would run the first ever picture of a Death Eater who was still alive, and still living the high life.

The July picture, celebrating the one-year anniversary of the series, and the ten-year anniversary of _Their Toy_'s capture, showed Nott Senior amidst a sea of thick black candles, many of them dripping wax down on _Their Toy_, but quite a few also burning close enough to bare skin to cause serious injury.

_Their Toy_ was not screaming in this picture; he seemed too afraid to move even a hair's breath, for fear of causing even worse damage to himself. And all the while, numerous sexual toys were attached to various parts of his body, humiliating him beyond the torture, and providing an endless supply of sadistic glee for his torturer.

Harry looked pensively at the picture that would be distributed the world over today. They still weren't showing his own face, but the Death Eaters would now be given up one by one until the end of the year. Then, a collector's book of _Their Toy's Detailed Adventures_ was scheduled to appear, showing every single face – including his own.

The centre fold of the book would feature Harry Potter, scar and green eyes and all, looking straight at the camera, with Lucius Malfoy behind him, raping him.

They were getting ready to watch the Wizarding World explode.

* * *

As a first taste, today's edition announced that _Their Toy_ would be performing at this year's Folsom Street Fair.

Harry knew that showing the sadists' faces would make the column that much more exciting for his muggle audience who still believed everything to be tricks, photoshop and play. It was just so much more fascinating to see a man's pleasure in the pain he was causing than to merely watch the interaction of the bodies. People wanted to empathise, either with the sadist or his victim. For this, seeing their faces was a tremendous boon.

So they expected a fairly enthusiastic crowd of fans at the fair.

Harry hated every single picture, of course. But in a way, he was also proud of them. He had lived through that. And he was defeating it, little by little.

Jeff and his _Exotic Dreams_ had been just in time to save him from destroying himself on the street. That was an immensely important first step. But it didn't go far enough. Only when Rita freed his magic did Harry begin to have hope again. No longer was he just surviving; for the first time in seven years, he felt truly _alive._

Rita had also helped him overcome his fear of Diagon Alley.

Back when he had first been freed – or maybe evicted would be more accurate – from Riddle Manor, he had made his way to London and approached the Leaky Cauldron. He wanted to let people know he was still alive. There had to be someone who could help him get back on his feet!

But the old barkeeper, Tom, had barely looked at him before he threw the "drunken beggar" out of his pub. True, Harry looked like hell, and was clothed only in an old cloak he had found in a bin. Still, compared to some of the hags hanging around the Leaky Cauldron, surely he didn't look that bad?

Frustrated beyond belief and thoroughly disillusioned, Harry left the pub. He knew there had to be other entrances to the Alley, but he did not know where! He had gathered from a newspaper that he now was twenty years old, but for all that, he still only had the world knowledge of a sixteen year old muggle-raised Hogwarts student. Well, plus his intimate knowledge of torture and rape, of course.

He was standing beside the busy street, muggles giving him a wide berth as they walked by, when he noticed two cloaked wizards hurriedly approaching him.

Malfoy and Nott.

Harry had no wand. He didn't even have shoes, goddammit! He had no friends either, and no way to appeal to the people in the pub – they saw him as a run-down beggar and would be only too happy if two powerful aristocrats deigned to relieve them of his presence.

_Helpless._

Harry froze. He was used to being helpless before these men. It was no use running, for where could he go? But... he was no longer in that room. Surely, that had to count for something?

As they saw him standing there in stupefied indecision, the two men slowed down. A malicious smile broke out over Malfoy's face. It was that smile that finally shook Harry out of his stupor. He would not be Malfoy's toy again. Ever!

Harry turned tail and ran.

Later, he did not know quite how he got away. He had a fuzzy recollection of screeching brakes, lots of shouting and eventually, an ambulance, but no pain, only more running. He thought maybe one of the purebloods had been run over trying to follow him across the road.

However he may have achieved it, the important facts for him were that he just so made it out alive, and he was not risking that a second time!

And so three years had gone by before he even visited that part of London again.

When Rita freed him, he got a first taste of what it might be like to use his magic again. And god, what a wonderful feeling! Magic fairly burst out of him to destroy those hated cuffs, merely because he wanted them gone. It felt great!

He knew, objectively, that this was only due to his magic having been blocked for so long, then enhanced by his overwhelming desire to destroy the cuffs. He wasn't so powerful as to be capable of wandless magic on a daily basis. Still, even doing it just the once had made him remember how wonderful it felt to have magic rushing through his veins, exiting his body to do his bidding.

He felt powerful!

So when Rita proposed a visit to Diagon Alley to get him a new wand, he hesitantly accepted.

* * *

"Welcome back, Miss Skeeter... and Mister Potter," Ollivander's mysterious voice floated toward them from the shadows at the back of the store. "I am pleased to see you looking well." The ancient wandmaker emerged into the dim light near the thick window, gazing intently at the two of them.

With a sigh, Harry pushed back the hood he'd drawn deep down into his face. Apparently, there was still no hiding from Ollivander.

Intense eyes regarded their uncovered faces. "I would ask what brings you to my shop when both your wands are still in prime working condition, but of course the issue here is a different one."

He focused solely on Harry, who flinched back from the old wizard's focused stare. "Should you obtain it back, your wand will not forgive you for abandoning it, even if it was none of your fault. It does not know that it was taken up by another who had not defeated you without your knowledge nor consent."

Harry stopped cowering and growled at the old man. "Who?"

"Albus Dumbledore took up your wand after your disappearance," Ollivander explained. "As you know, it was the brother to the Dark Lord's wand - which has since been destroyed. A useful tool in a war."

"I hate that old goat," Harry spat angrily.

Ollivander cocked an eyebrow. "For taking your wand without permission?" he asked, even though his tone suggested he knew very well that wasn't it.

Harry didn't care what the man's motives were. Here was a member of the wizarding world that had abandoned him to a fate worse than hell, questioning his righteous anger. "He built me up as the Boy Who Lived even though he knew I wasn't! He let Voldemort have me and turned his back on me. He gave me up to rot in HELL!"

Harry's pulse raced and his hands were clenched in fists of impotent rage.

Ollivander's aloof look had thawed into something mildly compassionate, yet still unimpressed. "Ah, but did he know?" he questioned.

"What?" Rita asked sharply.

"Did he know you were not the one his prophecy referred to? After you went missing, he declared the Longbottom boy the true Boy Who Lived, but had he truly known beforehand? In all your time at Hogwarts, was there ever a hint that Longbottom received secret training? That Dumbledore singled him out for anything, protected him more than others?"

Harry shook his head, forced to concede the point. No, it had never seemed that way. He glared at the wandmaker angrily. Harry was not ready to give up his hatred of Dumbledore so easily.

The man continued his line of questioning, unperturbed by the glare. "Are you aware that some consider prophecies to be next to useless, due to the fact that they are notoriously hard to interpret?"

Harry, like Rita beside him, kept silent, waiting for the point the man was obviously working towards.

Ollivander noticed he had their full attention now. Straightening up, he started pacing. "It is my personal belief that the prophecy never meant either one of you, wasn't even intended for our day and age. Dumbledore merely wished to believe it was because he knew the Dark Lord had not died and he desperately needed a weapon to defeat him."

Before Harry had a chance to voice more than a triumphant "Ha!" at hearing Ollivander openly agree with one of Harry's points, the man went on.

"There is no public record of the battle in which the Dark Lord was ultimately defeated. The ministry had me verify that the wand's owner was truly deceased this time before the wand was destroyed, but the world only has Dumbledore's word for the fact it was Longbottom that did it. Considering that the boy was in a magical coma for several months after the battle, he could not personally be questioned at the time. In fact, I believe he has yet to make a full recovery."

Harry's eyes widened. Since Rita told him about Neville being the Boy Who Lived, he'd been hating on Neville pretty hard for betraying him, but what if his classmate had just been another victim like himself?

"That's all well and good," Rita cut in, "but why did he never look for Harry? Harry was one of his students. He should have searched for him, if for no other reason than his responsibility as a headmaster."

"Again I ask: How do you know he did not?"

Harry snorted. This one was easy. He quickly rattled down his list: "He told the world I was dead, even though he had no proof. The aurors were clearly not on the look out for me when they invaded Voldemort's stronghold. Not a single Death Eater was questioned about me in any of the trials. There is nothing to suggest he ever bothered to look."

Ollivander frowned. "I have to concede this point."

Harry wanted to shout and jump around in glee. It felt great getting Ollivander to admit he was wrong about this. Somehow, the aura of ancient wisdom around the old wandmaker had him feeling like an errant schoolboy for questioning Dumbledore's motives. It was clear the man was a Dumbledore supporter. Harry did not know the history there, though he thought Rita might have said something about Dumbledore rescuing Ollivander from captivity.

He lost his glee, scowl quickly returning to his face. So a wandmaker was worth rescuing, but Harry was not? Lovely.

Right then, Ollivander's face cleared. "I remember that we did not have the resources for an extended search at the time of your disappearance. Had we tried anyway, we might not have won the war. I must conclude, then, that it was a typical one-versus-many choice. He sacrificed one individual for the protection of everyone else."

"He had no right!"

"No one ever does," Ollivander said, "but sometimes it must be done anyway. Imagine a rampaging dragon attacking the village. You are the mayor. You know that a single virgin sacrifice will appease the dragon. What is more, you may be able to slay the beast once it is satisfied and resting, buying peace for your village for many years to come. There are no volunteers. Will you sacrifice the entire village or a single virgin?"

Harry shivered. Why did it always have to be virgins in those dragon stories?

Beside him, Rita looked pensive. "You are saying the choice was wrong, but there was no right choice?"

Ollivander nodded gravely.

Harry gnashed his teeth in frustrated anger. "Maybe at the time there wasn't! But what about after? Why didn't he look for me then? It's not like I was magically hidden or anything!" That Harry knew of, anyway. 

Ollivander looked pensive. "When Malfoy Manor was raided, many people were freed from its dungeon, including myself. After the storm on Riddle Manor and the liberation of further prisoners, several Death Eaters confirmed under veritaserum that the Dark Lord kept all his remaining prisoners there, so the aurors stopped looking for other victims. I suppose that although there was no proof of your death, the likelihood that you were still alive somewhere was judged so slim that Dumbledore had no choice but to believe his own words from years ago: you were dead and there was no saving you."

Tears brimmed in Harry's eyes. Hating Dumbledore had become so much a part of him. Why did it suddenly feel like a vice?

Rita swooped in to save him. "You are painting Dumbledore as a wise leader who makes the tough choices. Tell me, Mister Ollivander, have you ever heard the name Ariana Dumbledore?"

The discussion lasted a long time.

In the end, Rita and Harry, their hoods once more shading their faces, left the shop with Harry clutching his new wand as though afraid someone might take it from him and Rita strutting with quick, angry strides of her shiny dragonhide boots. Behind them, a very pensive Ollivander turned his shop sign to 'Closed' and retired to his apartment. He would not inform Dumbledore of this visit. For now, he had some deep thinking to do.

"I feel like a stupid little child for hating the man who betrayed me," Harry muttered. "It's not fair. How can he just _do_ that?"

Rita curled a hand around his neck, the familiar pressure helping to centre him. "Ollivander is a very old wizard  with an aura of infinite wisdom.  And despite what he said about prophecies, he has a knack for predicting a wizard's career just from watching them find their wands.  But don't let his holier-than-thou attitude bother you.  He's not all-knowing."

Harry tried on a slight smile and found it nearly fit his face.

"I believe we should give some thought to his last comment, though."

Harry fumbled the smile and it dropped off his face.  "You think he's right?!"

"Not about everything, no," Rita said in a sharp tone that said _This is your mistress speaking _to Harry's every sense. Her hand on his neck tightened painfully and Harry unconsciously relaxed, his resistance melting. "But when he said we were fighting a war against powerful people without any allies of our own, so we should be sure about who our enemies are - that, we very much do need to take to heart." 

Resignedly, Harry nodded.

"We cannot afford to fight against everyone at the same time," Rita continued. "At the very least, we should see the series in the magazine to its conclusion without getting ourselves killed before we even try to tackle the other side."

"Yes, of course," Harry said. He might not like it, but she was right. Revenge on anyone on the 'Light' side certainly had to wait. A guilty twinge in his stomach informed him that revenge on Neville was not something he enjoyed considering any more. He thought about humiliating Dumbledore and felt bile rise up in his throat; he wasn't sure about that one any longer, either. Oh, how he hated Ollivander's stupidly wise words! Dumbledore had wronged him, there was no doubt about it. But Harry was no longer sure the old man's reasoning had been as callous as he had always assumed.

That night, despite Rita's best efforts to distract him with a long and involved session, an exhausted Harry lay awake for long hours trying to decide whether he would sacrifice the village or the virgin.

* * *

Over a year later, he still wasn't sure, but had put the question out of his mind. He had bigger issues to deal with.

Rita and he were scheduled to go on stage in America in three days, and they had a problem. They'd agreed to use muggle transportation to avoid all magical notice, just to be on the safe side. Only, Rita had taken one look at the interior of the airplane and promptly panicked.

"I can't be trapped in a flying metal box for ten hours!!!"

It turned out that being kept in a jar by Hermione for weeks had done a number on her. Rita described being carried around in a glass jar in her beetle form to Harry. There was mention of banging uselessly against the walls, being helplessly turned around when the jar shook, and fearing to suffocate whenever the jar shifted in the bag allowing a book or some other paraphernalia to cover the holes in the lid.

The surprising thing was not that Rita was cleithrophobic as a result; what was surprising, really, was that she had only such a mild form of it. Rita had no issues with people standing between her and the exit, she happily sat in the middle of a row in the theatre and could even suffer narrow hallways with heavy, closed doors on either end. It did explain why she would rather walk up sixty-four flights of stairs than take the lift, though.

So here they were, entering the ministry late on Thursday afternoon for an international portkey and just knowing that the identity check would make waves. They anxiously offered their wands and names to the security wizard at the front desk... and the barely-of-age young man did not even blink at hearing the name Harry Potter.

It felt surreal.

When Harry had walked into the ministry with Arthur Weasley eleven years ago, it had seemed that everyone was craning their necks to get a glimpse of the Boy Who Lived. Now, there was a younger generation that had never even heard his name.

Dazed, Harry followed Rita to the Department of International Travel. It was on the fifth floor and there were no staircases in the ministry. Rita clung tightly to Harry in the lift, burying her face in his shoulder until the doors opened to let them out. Gasping huge breaths of air, Rita slowly began to relax. "The things I do for your sake," she muttered darkly.

Harry hid a smile. She really had done a lot for him. Retelling his memories in a way to make them appeal to the kinky crowd was the least of it; writing was her love, and getting such positive feedback from her target audience always made her heart swell with pride in her accomplishments. That part had been easy. It was also no hardship for her to take the young man in as her sub and hurt him and fuck him as much as he liked.

But then there were the nightmares. The flashbacks. The weeks he spent lying on the couch as though someone had cut his strings because the powerful depression that no cheering charm in the world could ever counter leached all the power and motivation to move out of him.

Strangely, this had not been an issue while he worked at _Exotic Dreams_; but ever since Rita freed him, Harry's troubles only seemed to multiply. Often, Rita could only watch as his drama unfolded, helpless to do anything to make it better for him. It had to be hell on her.

Rita did not take the force of Harry's trauma lying down, though. She managed to find a trustworthy squib therapist for Harry to work with. She kept Harry fed and watered when he felt incapable of doing so on his own, sharing the income from her muggle columnist job and consoling him when he lost yet another menial job to his inability to get up in the morning. And she put him through exciting, strenuous sessions when he desperately needed to get out of his own head.

She provided cuddles, too.

Sometimes, he still wandered the streets at night to go soliciting, unable to give up the routine of dangerous men making extreme demands of his body. He supposed that he needed to reassure himself that he could still take it, that even now when he had a safer, more stable life, being used by a stranger would not break him. Needed, maybe, to reassure himself that these days, he kept some control over such encounters and he would never again be as incapable of judging the severity of an injury as when he'd first been out on the streets, still expecting every laceration, every broken bone and torn muscle to be magically healed before the arrival of the next man. Or maybe it was that some of the potions the Death Eaters had fed him demanded he have more than one partner. How would he know what all they'd given him? They never told him, just shoved the bottles down his throat as they did so many things.

So he wasn't entirely sure why he did it, but at least once in a fortnight, Harry found himself in the back of a car with a cock down his throat, or in some dingy alley, being fucked ruthlessly by an inebriated older man, or in a cheap hotel room, some pathological sadist whipping him until his blood spattered the tarnished mirror.

And Rita was always there when he got back. She cleaned his wounds, made him drink enough fluids, gave him the right potions and put him in bed until he was fully recovered from the night's brutal encounter.

Lately, he'd had some odd sessions with roleplayers. Men who would put cheap throw-away metal shackles around his wrists, wrap themselves in black robes or some approximation thereof, and wave around fake wands, ordering him to pretend to be horribly wounded by their mighty spells. It appeared that _Their Toy_ had some serious fans in London. Harry wondered if this only happened to him due to his physical likeness to _Their Toy _(they still hadn't shown his face in the magazine) or if other streetwalkers encountered the same kind of play, never knowing what drove their johns to this particular, weird scenario. 

Twice now, he'd had flashbacks when someone came too close to recreating a scene he had lived through at Riddle Manor. The first man had been frightened by his sudden switch  from  arousal to serious begging, tears, shivering and pained gasps; he had  thrown a blanket around Harry's shoulders, given him a hot chocolate and helped him calm down. That had been kind of nice.  The second one, though, really got into it when Harry  'played' the role of the suffering victim so very convincingly, and threw some money on the pile to extend the session by a couple of hours  while Harry cowered in  mindless  panic. Rita had spent a long time putting the pieces of Harry back together after that one. 

They'd taken his flashbacks into consideration when putting together the show for the Street Fair. Rita would wear a polyjuiced male body that did not match any of the Death Eaters'. The torture they planned to show would have elements of different Death Eaters' styles - hard to avoid, since there were few kinks Harry had not been subjected to during his captivity - but put together in such a way that Harry's mind would not connect them to any specific person. They would only be on stage for half an hour, not getting too deeply into the scene, so Harry would be unlikely to either sink into subspace or get trapped in a painful memory. What was more, they'd use fake blood for an artistic display rather than truly whip him to the point of bleeding. Hopefully, he'd be able to stay alert and help Rita look out for Death Eaters in the audience. 

There would be a few  unknown variables, of course.  Besides their ultimate goal of establishing  _Their Toy_ as an actual, living person, and maybe outing a few Death Eaters who were dumb enough to attend,  Harry also wanted his fans to have a good time. His work at  _Exotic Dreams_ had taught him to enjoy many of the kinks that had been forced upon him by the Death Eaters.  He wanted to  allow others to enjoy those kinks in a safe environment.  For anyone outside the wizarding world, the series was pure fantasy, no real victims involved, a thing of art and beauty to  happily get off on without any moral dilemma.  Harry wanted to keep it that way. He wanted to put on a good show  as the actor they expected to see. 

To create a convincing, powerful display though, they would need more than one aggressor.  So they had decided to 'honour' some lucky members of the audience by allowing them to join in. Those were the wildcards.  Rita would direct them in what to do and when, but it was still all a bit unpredictable. 

Harry was looking forward to it. 

Yes, there were concerns he might have a flashback. There was the very real danger of Death Eaters cursing him while he wasn't paying attention. There was the threat of the American  government interfering due to the congregation of wizards at such a muggle event endangering the  Statute of Secrecy. There were so many things that could go wrong. 

But there was also so much that could go spectacularly  _right._ Harry would be shown off to adoring fans by his strong, capable mistress. He would get to pleasure several men, all of whom would  without a doubt be overjoyed just to be allowed near him.  And afterwards, maybe he'd get to mingle with the crowd and just enjoy being among hundreds and thousands of kinksters roaming the streets and having fun.  Despite the many issues and dangers, it sounded glorious. 

__

The portkey ride over the Atlantic  twisted Harry's stomach but he barely noticed since it was full of butterflies anyway.  His first trip abroad, and what a trip it would be!

__

Then they prepared to go through customs and that's where it all went  sideways. 

__

"Mister  Harry  Potter?" an American customs wizard asked, looking at his British passport.  Harry nodded. The man got up from behind his booth and with a curt "Follow me" started to walk towards a door at the back of the hall. 

__

"Rita," Harry cried out. His mistress turned around from where she was waiting at the next booth over. Eyes widening, she hurried to join him.  Harry's customs wizard allowed it and waved them both through the door. 

__

Harry felt sweat break out all over his body. Rita had done the research and found out that travels abroad were made difficult indeed for current and former sex workers. Harry had intended to lie on his muggle immigration form, maybe use a _Confundus_ charm on the customs officer. But with the magicals, that was not an option. Of course, they had not expected to need it. What did the wizarding world care about what went on in a muggle establishment such as _Exotic Dreams_? Surely, there was no magical record of his muggle occupation, nor of his occasional nights out. 

__

But then, what else could they want with him? 

__

Harry clutched Rita's hand tightly in his,  trying to calm his full-body shivers.  What was going to happen to them? Maybe wizarding America took an even dimmer view on  sex  labour than their muggle counterpart.  Why hadn't  he researched the US wizarding world more closely before coming? What were the Americans going to do to him? 

__

The American wizard led them down several hallways and into a richly appointed  office.  "Please wait here," he instructed them, then left. 

__

Harry and Rita looked at each other, then Rita pulled Harry into a hug. Harry clutched at her like a drowning man clutches at the last plank of his sunk ship, hoping it will carry him to shore before the next storm hits.

__

They stayed wrapped up in each other until the clicking of the door handle startled them apart. 

__

A severe looking, older white man entered the office. "Mister Potter, Miss Skeeter, welcome to the United States of America," he said, giving them a nod and a handwave to indicate they ought to sit down. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Frederick Coulson, President of the United States of Magical America."

__

"How do you do?" Harry managed to croak out as he sat down, Rita's hand still clutched in his. Rita's "Pleased to meet you" was a lot smoother, but still nothing like her usual self-confident tone. Neither of them knew why they were meeting the President, but both were fairly sure it couldn't mean anything good. They exchanged a glance, Harry nodding permission to Rita to handle this for the both of them.

__

"Mister President," Rita said so matter-of-factly it nearly sounded real, "while we appreciate the chance to meet an important political figure like yourself, we were just on our way to our holiday spot and-"

__

"Stop." The President cut her off with a sharp hand gesture. "Time flies, so allow me to be blunt and please spare me the small talk." He threw a horribly familiar magazine on his desk, opened to the latest instalment of _Their Toy._


	5. Hit the Stage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter contains some very public, consensual rape play, witnessed through the eyes of a sadist spectator. Read at your own discretion.

Harry knelt on the floor of the tiny, dimly lit room. On the stool beside him sat a finely muscled, tall man in his forties. The man had long, dark hair that he wore open around his angular face. He was well-shaven and dressed in an impeccably tailored dark shirt and trousers. The man's hand rested firmly on Harry's neck, pushing the young man's face into the seated man's thigh.

Harry breathed slowly in and out, each breath making his thin, white nightgown whisper against his pebbled nipples.

Everything about Harry was hard, tense, and running on pure adrenaline.

Tonight was the night. He was going on stage as _Their Toy_, before an audience that had been fighting over the last tickets to the exclusive club more than a month ago. Through the door, down the hall and past the curtain, he could hear the dull throbbing dance music the masses were currently partying to. He knew that there was already more than just dancing going on out there. Everyone would be keyed up and ready for _Their Toy_ to give them an exciting, extreme performance the moment he stepped out there.

He buried his face further into Rita's side.

He was familiar with her in this shape. They had practised with this form beforehand so Harry would feel comfortable around Rita when she looked all male and bulky, talked with a deep voice and even smelled different. He knew this body. Knew it and trusted it. And right now, he needed to feel her close.

The hand on his neck firmed as though in answer to his thoughts, gently but firmly pushing him forward until his face rested on her right foot. "Kiss it," he heard the deep voice command him. Harry obeyed.

"Good boy," the man's voice rumbled. Harry rubbed his face against the foot, pleased. He began to float a little in the safety of his mistress's dominance. His turbulent thoughts, worries and anticipation calmed until only contented clarity remained.

They were going to do this. Tonight. As a team.

Just three days ago, he hadn't been sure they'd ever even make it to San Francisco, much less be allowed to perform. When the President had thrown down that magazine like a gauntlet, Harry had felt his stomach drop down to his feet.

But then the man had smiled at him and... Well. It had turned out alright. Very much alright. Harry smiled a little himself, remembering the conversation. Never had he imagined he might get so much support for what he had thought a very egocentric and unkind cause. But, as it turned out, it wasn't.

Rita's hand left his neck and Harry slowly straightened back up. Pride swelled his chest as he considered his own importance. He may not be the Boy Who Lived, but he was still going to do his part to make his world a safer place. And he was going to do it with every ounce of kinky abandon he was able to muster.

"It is time," Rita's male voice lowly rumbled at him. Rita got up, donning her fake Death Eater's robe and extending a hand towards Harry. He grasped it firmly in his own and allowed her to pull him to his feet.

Yes, it was time.

* * *

Charlie had a hard time focusing on his job. There was this guy looking at him like his next meal, and wow, that man was _built_! It wasn't like Charlie was entirely needed here. Dumbledore had insisted on bringing the whole flaming Order, well the men anyway and a few women who wouldn't be deterred, and there was not a Weasley to be found who hadn't wanted to save Harry. So there were plenty of people here to look out for and, if necessary, to look after Harry Potter. It was fine if Charlie threw just a small, fiery look the well-built stranger's direction... 

Across the room, he saw his  polyjuiced  father watching him.  _Damn. _ Heaving a large sigh, he turned around to face the stranger full on and give a sad little head shake.  _Maybe later,_ he thought. It was still entirely possible that there would be an actual actor on stage and not Harry Potter.  Even if his brothers were certain it was Harry in those cruel pictures, he might not  even be alive any more. 

_That_ thought got Charlie's libido under control fast. Bad enough that someone was turning a tidy profit off of the rape and dehumanization of a boy his younger brothers had been friends with in school; even worse should it turn out the young man in question had died at the hands of his captors. Charlie shuddered, nervously eyeing the small stage set up to one side of the cavernous hall. The disco lights were flashing over it as they were everything else, and yet it somehow seemed darker, ominous. 

Just as he thought this, the lights and music in the club abruptly cut off. A sound like a huge gong being struck reverberated through the room. People stopped what they had been doing, some of them mid-intercourse, and straightened up to look at the stage. 

The stage remained wrapped in darkness. There was no light to be found anywhere, except for the neon green exit sign  above the  gate  at the far end of the hall.  An expectant silence fell heavily over the audience. 

Suddenly, the silence was broken by the sound of ragged, panicked breathing.  The sound was enhanced, presumably by a microphone.  It was clear the person causing the noise was trying to remain quiet, to remain unheard, and yet his breaths could be heard clearly in the furthest corners of the room. 

A  single spotlight ignited, illuminating the figure of a slender young man cowering on the stage, wrapped only in a flimsy, white nightgown. The young man's vibrant green eyes were open wide in a classic deer-in-headlights  look.  He was staring at a green light racing towards him with the full speed of a powerful killing curse. "Fuck," Charlie whispered.

The green light was stopped by an obstacle barely distinguishable in the darkness of the club; an answering red light flashed somewhere in the back of the hall, a muffled curse sounded, then all was silent again except for the increasingly frantic breathing of the young man on the stage.

Slowly, the spotlight rose to show the man's dark, tousled hair in the grip of an unforgiving hand. The beam of light widened to reveal a man in Death Eater robes standing behind the young man in his flimsy white piece of clothing, using his grip to bend back his victim's head to over-extend his neck, unbalancing him and rendering him entirely vulnerable. The presumed Death Eater's left hand was extended as though to shade himself from hostile fire. The man's mouth could clearly be seen to open, then the first words of the performance were spoken. 

"He is ours," growled the man, lowering his hand and laying it possessively over the boy's chest.  The young man whimpered. 

As if on cue - and maybe it was -, dark-robed figures appeared among the audience and headed towards the stage. Charlie recognized one of the other guests as he walked past him, the hood not fully covering the man's face.  And still, the effect was impressive. While everyone's eyes had been fixed on the stage, most people never noticed their neighbours donning the special robes the lucky chosen few had received at the entrance,  along with a  set of muttered instructions. To the rest of the audience, it must look as though these 'dark wizards' had simply appeared among them as though by magic. 

Only moments later, seven menacing, black-robed figures stood in a half circle around the pair on the stage,  exuding the eagerness to hurt their helpless, innocent victim. 

The leader still had one hand clenched in the boy's hair. The other hand now held a vial presumably filled with some evil potion. It was forced on the young man, who, too frightened to protest, swallowed it all. For a moment, the world held its breath. Then colour rose in the young man's cheeks and as the hand finally released his head, he looked down at his crotch with eyes full of horror. 

His captor took hold of his nightgown with both hands. A loud ripping noise tore through the room and suddenly the young man was naked, still staring  terrified down at his hard, dripping cock, now revealed for everyone to see. 

"This little boy here needs to be taught a lesson," the man's deep voice rumbled while he took hold of one of the boy's nipples and pinched.  The rosy lips opened and a frightened little noise of pain emerged. "Ah!" As one, the audience stood straighter and focused so as not to miss anything. It was the first time any of them heard  _Their Toy_ 's voice. 

It was such a sweet voice, too. 

The wizard behind the naked young man pinched the other nipple, eliciting an even more decadently innocent sound of pain. Pinches to his sides followed, to his thighs, the older man now kneeling behind his victim. The young man obviously wanted to get away, but still he kept his hands behind his back and stayed on his knees, too terrified to even attempt an escape.

At a gesture of the dark wizards' leader, two of the robed figures surrounding them stepped forward, each holding a set of ropes. Their victim's eyes grew wider and his panicked breathing could once more be heard loudly over the club's sound system as the leader produced a set of metal shackles that closed around his delicate wrists with loud, forbidding clangs, the sound seeming to echo in the tense silence of the cavern-like room.

Bondage could be a slow, sensuous thing, between people who respected and loved each other. This session was nothing like that. Brisk, efficient hands forced the victim's arms up and for the first time, Charlie could see that they had been bound behind his back even before the shackles were attached, an evil-looking, thin band holding them together. Now, the pretend-Death Eaters' leader snapped that band with the cut of a knife, the edge glinting brightly in the spotlight. There was no relief to be had for the poor victim, however. Angry red marks were visible for a quick moment where the band had been biting into his skin, then he young man's arms were pulled up by the ropes now attached to his shackles and secured somewhere in the darkness above the stage.

_Their Toy_ was left kneeling on the stage with his arms spread wide and pulled slightly back, making his chest and his formidable erection stand out toward the audience. The slightly stunned, helpless look still dominated his face.

Another gesture of the head Death Eater, apparently the dungeon master of this session, had a third guest Death Eater coming forth with a riding crop. The man stepped around _Their Toy _and took up position slightly to the side of the pale body, tapping the crop against the young man's chest in what Charlie recognized as a warning before the man would land his first real blow. It was a nice gesture, letting a sub know beforehand where a hit would land so they could mentally prepare for it. Something in Charlie relaxed at the display. Choosing random guests was a bit of a dangerous idea, but it seemed in this instance, at least, the organizers had chosen well.

The guest Death Eaters had not been given microphones and Charlie could not see much of the man's face below the hood; but he thought the man must have asked something, for _Their Toy's_ gaze shot up to his for a brief moment, the fear transforming into a look of an entirely different intensity as he gave a brief, but very certain nod. Then the moment was gone and _Their Toy_ went back to being a mindlessly frightened victim.

That was nice, too, Charlie thought. He was convinced he had just witnessed one of the guests pulled into this show asking for reassurance that this was all consensual - and getting it. Whether this man was indeed Harry Potter or not - and Charlie really couldn't be sure, despite the scar clearly visible on the man's forehead; it simply had been too long and they'd never been that close, after all - he certainly was someone Charlie thought he could like. The man was obviously keyed up and ready to go, but even in the midst of such an intense scene, he cared about his partners' well-being. That was good.

Thinking about the question of whether the man was Harry Potter or not reminded Charlie that he had a job to do. As much as he would have liked to just settle in and enjoy the show, especially now that he was sure it really _was_ just a show... He had to stay alert. If the Order had gotten wind of this event, it stood to reason that so had the Death Eaters. He had already witnessed one foiled attack from a hostile in the audience, and there were likely more; whoever the man up there was, Charlie needed to protect him from them.

He glanced back at where his father had been standing a moment ago - only to get a nasty shock. He was just in time to see his dad's polyjuiced form led away toward the backstage area at wand point. "Dad!" he hissed, reaching for his own wand.

"Don't," a sharp voice commanded from behind him, also in a whisper, and suddenly Charlie became aware of the tip of a wand digging into his own back. "For bringing a wand to a muggle event and drawing it with intent to use, you are under arrest," the voice behind him intoned in what was clearly an American accent.

Charlie let out a relieved sigh. "You're not a Death Eater," he whispered silently.

"No," the American wizard drawled. "Are you?"

"No!" Charlie said, a little too loudly; he was immediately hushed by several of the surrounding men, all intent on the spectacle up on the stage and clearly bothered by the noise Charlie and the American were making. "No," Charlie repeated, volume returning to a whisper with a sheepish look over his shoulder. His eyes met those of a middle-aged, nicely built man in an outfit that blended in deliciously well in this environment, who was giving Charlie a considering look.

"You with Dumbledore, then?" the man asked, surprising a shocked startle out of Charlie.

"Yes, I... How did you know?"

The man grimaced. "We were alerted to the possibility of your lot showing up. An unwelcome complication, I must say. But not unexpected. Word is that most of yours have already been apprehended, though, due to pointing their wands at the stage." A bit of humour laced his voice at his next words. "I don't think most of your colleagues know a consensual BDSM scene when they see one."

Charlie turned around to fully face the other man. "Are there enough of you to protect him?" he asked, with a nod up toward the stage.

With a smirk, the American gave a sharp nod. "Hell yeah."

"Good," Charlie said. "Then if I surrender my wand to you now, may I stay and watch?"

The American barked out a laugh, once more drawing the ire of those around them. "I like the way you talk," he said, holding out his hand and quickly pocketing both wands.

Then, as though nothing had happened, both men turned back toward the stage to watch the scene unfold.

While their attention was on each other, the two wizards had missed the beginning of the spanking, but it was still on-going. _Their Toy _was uttering sharp, pained little cries, seemingly surprised by each consequent hit, like he couldn't believe what was being done to him.

Red welts were blooming all over his chest, but the man wielding the riding crop obviously knew his business: His victim's nipples had so far been miraculously spared from the abuse. The man's hood had slipped back a little, so Charlie and his American auror escort could clearly see the smirk on his lips as he paused for a short moment, then deliberately brought the crop down on one of the young man's nipples.

_Their Toy_ screamed. 

The sound was piercing, and desperate - and so damn hot.

"Can't believe that's my little brother's best friend up there,"  Charlie  whispered out of the corner of his mouth, shifting uncomfortably to accommodate his straining erection. 

"Think you can get me an autograph?" his equally impaired American colleague whispered back, furtively adjusting himself. 

Then they were silent again as the man with the riding crop made way for another who wielded nipple clamps and other sharp-toothed implements he proceeded to distribute liberally across the red-and-white expanse of  _Their Toy's _ body.  The young man was crying and begging long before another man approached with a vicious looking single-tail, but he was given no quarter.  Down came the whip, slamming into the rail-thin body with punishing force, and the young man was thrown forward into the hold of his bonds  as a ragged cry burst from his throat. 

Again the whip came down, and again.  Droplets began to fly with each hit, and while Charlie fervently hoped that there was a bucket of colour involved somewhere, he still couldn't help being madly aroused by the display. 

By now,  _Their Toy_ was crying out in a mixture of pain and lust, his voice wavering between helpless agony and immense, frustrated desire.  His cock was an angry red between his spread thighs, bobbing along with each hit and spreading a steady stream of fluid onto the boards of the stage. 

Charlie wanted to get up there and wrap his lips around that. Even more, however, he wanted to get his own cock into that prettily begging and moaning mouth. 

When they took _Their Toy_ down and spread him out on a low bench to be fucked from both ends, it was all Charlie could do not to come in his pants. The DM had set up the scene such that _Their Toy_ was at a perfect angle for Charlie to watch the wide, dark cock invading the young man's mouth, making him gasp and choke as it slipped further down his throat. He knew that other spectators, on the far side of the stage, would be treated to a view of the young man's beautiful rear being spread wide to accommodate one cock after the other, most of the guest Death Eaters too turned on by this point to last very long. 

When come started  leaking from the  young man's  arse and dripping down his  legs, Charlie could see it even from his vantage point.  _Their Toy_ was being fucked brutally, no holds barred, shuddering and  spasming between the invasions from both sides, and helpless to evade any of it.  They had not tied him down for this; but there were several  large  hands holding him down  on the bench, forcing him to stay and endure.  _Their Toy's _ own hands were clenching and unclenching futilely along the edges of his bench, his wrists trapped against his own body by the implacable grip of large, cruel hands. 

The man fucking  _Their Toy's_ face finally came, the bulging eyes of  _Their Toy_ betraying the young man's struggle to swallow it all.  More tears leaked out of his eyes, following the path already marked by the steady rivulets that started running  sometime after his abuser's cock first slid down his slender throat. 

Another flash of green light abruptly burst forth from among the audience, hurtling towards the stage - and was intercepted by some invisible obstacle. More lights flashed, some red, some green, and curses could be heard from several directions. The crowd milled restlessly as the magical battles took place among them.

Things quickly quieted down once more and everyone's focus returned to the stage, though Charlie could hear excited whispers about how much work must have gone into that little light-show.

Bless these muggles and their innocent joy of the entire set-up, Charlie thought. He was heartened by the lack of horror in the voices around him, though; it looked like nobody had actually died.

Up on the stage, the fake Death Eaters allowed the young man to breathe freely for a little while, turning him around to fully face the audience as they continued fucking his ass.  They had freed his hands and he was bracing himself against the bench now, his eyes looking out into the dark cavernous hall. 

For several minutes, the young man's eyes remained vacant, lost in the pain and pleasure of the scene. But then they seemed to focus, roaming across the audience  as though looking for something.  The lights were helpfully turned up a little,  allowing him to see who was watching him. When the man's eyes met Charlie's, they widened a fraction, and Charlie felt burned by the intensity he saw there.  But before he could do anything more than stare dumbly,  _Their Toy's _ eyes had wandered on,  leaving Charlie  to feel like  a  mouse narrowly escaping the hypnotic stare of a large snake. 

When the young man's eyes had done a full circuit of the room, he looked up toward the back of the club. Charlie had no idea what he saw there, but assumed it had something to do with the heavy  auror detail  assigned to his protection.  The erstwhile victim cocked his head for a moment as tough listening, then  breathed a single sentence: "Fuck you, Malfoy."

A  moment later, all hell broke lose. 

Charlie didn't know who fired the first shot, but  from one moment to the next, curses were flying  throughout the dungeon, and men were going down left, right and centre. He had time to notice that  even now,  none of them seemed to reach the stage; then silence fell again, broken only by the sound of several bodies being dragged across the floor toward the backstage area. 

Confused, stunned silence reigned for a moment. Then, _Their Toy_ spoke up, addressing the audience in a tone they hadn't heard from him before. "Gentlemen, please excuse this little interruption. It appears that certain uninvited guests have snuck in to try and get me back into their clutches. The head of security assures me that those particular _Dark Wizards_ have all been apprehended, though, and we are all safe to continue on with the show."

Smirking at them in a way that was not submissive at all and entirely too pleased with himself,  _Their Toy_ settled back on his haunches.  The leader of the fake Death Eaters and DM of the evening's session knelt by his side and they switched off their microphones to have a short, animated discussion. It ended with  _Their Toy's _ smirk widening, while the other man shook his head in fond exasperation. The mikes came back on. 

"...driving me to an early grave," was just so audible before the taller man stopped talking. He pulled out a suspicious hip flask, took a hearty swallow, gulped it down, then turned to address the audience.

"Gentlemen," the deep voice rumbled, "it is my pleasure" - and mustn't that have hurt to get out, Charlie thought with a snicker - " to inform you that  our special guest tonight has  decided to yet again extend the duration of this scene past the now one hour and counting." The man couldn't suppress his glower at the announcement and Charlie suddenly remembered that the scene had only been supposed to last half an hour. 

"Due to the apprehension of his erstwhile captors - and, frankly, way too much adrenaline and endorphins  in his bloodstream -" the audience laughed at yet another fierce glower -  _"Their Toy_ has decided that he wants to mix it up yet again. Several of you  will now be approached by  our lovely helpers -" The man waved a negligent hand toward the guest Death Eaters - "and offered to take their places. You do, of course, have the right to refuse.  All of you who are not chosen, please feel free to enjoy the rest of the evening as you like. The official part of the  show  is over and we are now transitioning to a somewhat less coordinated... party.  You are warmly invited to continue watching, but if you'd rather get some action of your own, don't hold back making some noise on our account."

A  murmur went  up from the crowd, as well as several comical shouts of "Me! Pick me!" Charlie snickered  and elbowed his American colleague into the ribs, who chuckled along, sharing the joke.  Neither of them expected one of the fake Death Eaters to then make a beeline for Charlie and hand him his cloak.  "Man, don't waste this," the man said, a blissed-out grin  on his sweaty face.  Charlie recognized him as the man who had so viciously fucked  _Their Toy's _ throat.

Charlie raised a questioning eyebrow toward the American  auror. The guy shrugged, then nodded.

"I won't," Charlie promised, then shrugged on the robe.

This, he thought, was certainly the weirdest thing he had ever done in his life.  Here he was,  Charlie Weasley, wearing a garment meant to resemble a Death Eater's robe, and getting ready to hurt or fuck his little brother's best friend in front of a club full of  kinky  muggles whilst under supervision of the American  equivalent of the  Ministry of Magic. 

What even was his life?

He wanted this, though. And whatever else might come of this, the young man who very likely was Harry  Potter  appeared to want it, too.  Who was he to deny this stunning young masochist his pleasure?

The moment Charlie stepped onto the stage,  _Their Toy's _ eyes snapped up to meet his.  "Charlie?" he asked, and it was Harry, it was really Harry!

"Harry," Charlie said, no question in his voice.  "I am glad you're alive."

"So am I," Harry said, his intense gaze softening into something like  nostalgia.  "So am I."

Harry was standing up now to greet his other chosen tops, making a brief round of introductions and telling them what he had in mind.  His microphone was carefully switched off to keep the audience unaware of what was to come.  All of the  invited  men eagerly agreed to join in the scene  as tops,  and one as an additional sub,  while Harry's helper groaned and threw up his hands in frustration. 

"Sorry, mistress," Harry said, sliding to his knees in a smooth motion and bowing to the butch man. And didn't  _that_ form of address  add  a nice twist to this entire scene! Charlie nearly died of curiosity just who Harry would trust with his body this way, after all he had apparently been through. 

That was a question for later, though, if he got the chance to ask it; for now,  Harry's "mistress" was pulling him up by the hair, back into an upright kneeling position, and telling him: "I do not approve of you taxing your body like that. But I know you want it, and I know you can take it. So go, have your fun."

"Thank you, mistress!" Harry said, eagerly bending down to kiss the man's feet in thanks. Then he turned around,  bowing to each of the men in turn,  and finally stood up to take the other sub's hand. 

"You can tap out at any time, you know that, right?" Harry asked softly. 

"Thank you," the slender young man answered. "I don't think I will, but it's always nice to know people are going to play by the rules.  But, say... is your back bleeding or was that...?"

"Colour," Harry said with a wink.  "And the 'spunk' leaking out of me  earlier  was  sadly fake, too - there were  some  nicely  thin, but durable  condoms involved.  Not going to play unsafe games up here."

The other sub breathed out a sigh of relief. "Glad to know we're on the same  page."

It only took a few minutes after that for the stage to be set for the second scene of the evening.  First, the stage lights flickered out, plunging the entire stage in darkness once more. The rest of the club retained a bit of low lighting and there was music playing in the side-room, the organizers making good on the promise Harry's top had uttered that now the official part was over, people were free to indulge in other pleasures and make some noise if they so desired. Charlie didn't think anyone was going to take them up on it, though. 

Harry stepped out onto the darkened stage, once more wearing a translucent white bit of nothing.  He'd had a very quick shower, washing spunk and sweat off his face and  all kinds of sticky substances from his arse; the  many glowing red welts stood out all the more loudly for it. 

Charlie could dimly make out Harry lying down on top  of a black latex mattress some stage hands had hurriedly brought up.  The young man curled in on himself like a puppy, complete with one  foot twitching in what was supposedly a disturbed, uneasy sleep. 

Slowly, the lights came back on, showing the audience  _Their Toy, _ resting fitfully after a day filled with abuse.  The light turned up a little brighter, causing the young man to curl up more tightly, as though to ward off the approach of a new day that would only bring him new pain. 

A door slammed open at the back of the stage, admitting a couple of men in black robes, both of them waltzing in like they owned the place. 

The young man on the bed, startled awake by the noise of the opening door, sat up and got into position on his knees, arms behind his back; his spine was perfectly straight, not a hair out of place in spite of the fact he had just been torn from his sleep. 

"Very nice, isn't he?"  one of the men said. 

"Always a pleasure," the other answered.

They sat down on either side of the young man and started fondling him through his white shift, conveniently turning him toward the audience in the process. Charlie sighed; now Harry was facing away from where he was waiting for his cue. But, he consoled himself, it wouldn't be long now.  Already, Harry was being fed another bottle of "magic potion" and doing his helplessly-aroused routine all over. 

Charlie firmly told himself not to think about why Harry was so damn convincing in that role. Harry was having fun now, he had to remember that. This was something Harry enjoyed nowadays, never mind how he had gotten there.  And he would not thank Charlie for ruining his fantasy - and the show - by being all concerned and solicitous. 

Charlie nodded firmly to himself. He was going to do this. 

Looking over at the man who had been selected to join Harry as a sub, Charlie raised a questioning eyebrow. The young man was bouncing in place with barely restrained energy, eager to go out there and join in.  He responded to Charlie's mute question with a series of furious nods.  Charlie laughed. "Let's get to it, then," he said. 

They both pulled up the hoods of their Death Eaters robes,  fixed their tiny microphones and stepped back from their position in the curtains to approach the stage door from behind.  They passed by Harry's mistress who gave them two thumbs up and then they were through the door and on the stage. 

Charlie walked up to the mattress and the three men on it with as much of a confident swagger as  he  could muster,  while Jacob, the sub, trailed behind a lot  more hesitantly.  "What's all this, then?" he questioned loudly. "I am quite certain I booked this time slot."

"Really?" one of the others questioned, not even looking up from where he was squeezing Harry's balls tightly enough to make the young man grimace and whimper in pain.  "Could have sworn there was nobody else wanting him this early."

"Liar," Charlie rumbled. "You know there's always a queue from sun-up to sundown." He took a menacing step closer.

The second man looked up. "Look, how about we make it up to you tonight? I hear our lord is giving out some of the other prisoners as gifts. You can have ours."

"I'm not just going away now!" Charlie roared.

On the bed, Harry shivered, and Charlie frankly couldn't say if it was in terror or anticipation.

"...How about we share, then?"  Lucas, the older of the two men on the mattress with Harry offered amiably. 

Charlie narrowed his eyes and hoped he looked speculative. "I suppose we could do that - if you still let me have that nice little present tonight."

"You drive a hard bargain," Frank, the other man, said - pressing his hard erection into Harry's side as he spoke.  Charlie had to suppress a snicker and was glad for the robe still hiding his face.  "But I think we have a deal."

Charlie nodded briskly, then took up his position behind Harry, where he could easily reach the young man's throat and wrap a hand around it.  For a while, the time for talking was over as the three men harmoniously shared their victim.  Harry obviously enjoyed the attention, his little moans and desperate cries of pain  now clearly revealed to Charlie for the enthusiasm they had been all along. 

It changed the experience, from a rape fantasy to an active, consensual scene, but Charlie was in no way disappointed. This time he could participate, after all, and having Harry writhing and moaning beneath his hands was fantastic.

Then it came time to acknowledge that one of the four pretend-Death Eaters hadn't joined in on the fun. "Jake!" Charlie shouted commandingly. "Why are you not taking part in this? Are you not grateful I invited you to join me?"

"I - I am very grateful," Jacob stuttered. "But... There are already three of you, so there's hardly and room for me... to-to..."

"Come over here," Charlie ordered sharply. The young not-Death Eater obeyed, hurriedly kneeling down beside Charlie.  He stumbled in his haste, causing his hood to fall back and reveal his flustered face and the wide, terrified eyes. The other two men withdrew a little to make room for the two of them to sit down on either side of Harry.  "Now, you take hold of his nipples like this," Charlie said, demonstrating, "and pinch like  _this."_

Harry howled.

Charlie was suddenly, fiercely glad that his father had already been led out of the room. "Now, your turn," he ordered.

Jacob made a hesitant motion toward Harry's nipples.

"I don't have all day," Charlie grouched. Jacob hurriedly clutched at the pink nipples and squeezed.

Harry gave a choked-off noise that might have been pain, but could just as easily have been suppressed laughter.

"You are so useless at this," Charlie said with an eye-roll. "It's like you don't even want to hurt him."

Jacob remained silent a beat too long.

"You don't," Charlie concluded. The other two fake Death Eaters drew nearer, coming to stand menacingly behind Jacob, their hands clamping down on his shoulders. "You don't want to be here," Charlie went on. "You don't even want to serve our Lord, do you?"

"Please," Jacob squeaked. "My father said-"

And, yeah, suddenly Charlie could see why Harry had chosen this one. He did have an uncanny resemblance to a certain blond aristocrat of their mutual acquaintance.

Charlie felt a feral grin stretching his lips. Merlin, but he'd have to watch himself not to hurt this one for real. "I do believe we have a traitor on our hands."

Later, Charlie would sometimes think back on this night and wonder if it had all been a dream. The blinding light of the stage lamps, the rising and ebbing murmur of the crowd, the far-off slapping sounds of guys jerking off to the show, the grunts and occasional curses of the two doms at his side, and the sweet moans and cries of pain of the two subs they were sharing all blending together into a long, bright memory of sensation, lust, over-stimulation and absolute control.

There was a moment when the two subs were connected by a multitude of strings attached to vicious little clamps, each movement of the one hurting the other along with them, and Charlie and Frank were slowly torturing them both with Wartenberg wheels to make them twitch and writhe.

There was another scene in which Jacob had his cock down Harry's throat and Lucas was fucking Jacob from behind, ramming Jacob's cock further into Harry with each thrust, while Charlie and Frank had prime seats to watch, them being the ones holding Harry in place during all this.

A later constellation had Harry holding a candle above Jacob's chest, trying not to spill the hot wax down on the man helplessly tied up below him as a himself precariously balanced Harry was hit alternatingly with Lucas's paddle and Charlie's cane.

And of course, there was the memorable set-up that had Harry being pushed back and forth between Charlie's cock up his arse and Frank's cock down his throat while Jacob cowered below him, forced to suck Harry off by Lucas's relentless grip on his hair.

Each moment stood out so vividly in Charlie's mind, and yet all of them had such a surreal quality to them, each appearing entirely improbable in its own right, and each of them nonetheless possessing the visceral, physical memories of _hot_ and _hard_ and _yes_ that made them undeniably true.

The one thing, though, the one moment that Charlie would always remember, was the whispered "Mistress?" Harry uttered as the scene was winding down. It brought his mistress, the tough DM from the first scene, striding out in hurried, long steps to wrap their arms around him, holding him close and whispering, mike off, "I've got you. You're safe."

Harry was silent for a long beat, then he quietly said: "I know" and relaxed into the embrace. They breathed in tandem for a few seconds longer, then Harry batted his eyes coquettishly up at his domme. "Will you please finish me off?"

"Yes, dear," the deep male voice answered drolly. And a moment later, the two of them were alone on the mattress, the four guests having retreated to watch from a respectful distance as _Their Toy's_ master proceeded to completely take him apart in front of their eyes and those of a dungeon filled with kinky guests.

Whatever might come of this, Charlie thought as he sat a few feet from the mattress and watched _Their Toy_ *really* giving up control for the first time this night, he was glad he had been allowed to witness this.

Harry Potter giving up control, letting himself fall completely into the care of his domme, was breathtaking to behold. And when Harry finally, finally came, Charlie was convinced half the club came with him.

He certainly did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope Charlie's discussion with his American escort and the battle didn't destroy the scene for you. Let me know!  
Next up: The fall-out of the Order's involvement and some explanations as to why Harry has the American Ministry on his side.


	6. Confrontations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last real chapter, only an epilogue left after this one. Enjoy!

Hermione hadn't been able to watch.

She had been kept informed of the goings-on. After all, she was the head of the Law Department and would have to deal with the fallout of the night, plus she was on-site to coordinate the apprehension of that many dark wizards with the head auror.

What few people had known, however, since Hermione had never talked about it to anyone, was that Hermione Granger used to be best friends with one Harry James Potter, formerly known as the Boy Who Lived. Nor did they know that his disappearance and presumed death was what had eventually driven her to leave wizarding Britain behind and seek relief from her pain, guilt and the pervasive feeling of helplessness by throwing herself head-first into work in a country that actually allowed her to make a difference.

She had tried. Before leaving Britain, she had tried to work for the Ministry there. But being a muggleborn and a woman, she hadn't met with much success. Nor had any of her letters to the Daily Prophet or any of her appeals to Dumbledore gotten anyone to question the captive Death Eaters about Harry Potter. It seemed that the moment the war was won, nobody wanted to give that particular mistake any more thought.

Disillusioned and frustrated, Hermione had finally packed her bags and left. She'd carved out a new life for herself in the States, and while she wasn't happy here, at least she was able to keep herself too busy with her work to really notice.

Then that notice had landed on her desk.

It was a simple enough thing as such, just a note that several foreign wizards had entered the country who were suspected of criminal intent, and would she please make sure her department was decently staffed to process them despite it still being holiday season? Nothing special about it, really; happened several times a year.

But.

These wizards supposedly came from England. They didn't get many suspect criminals from back home, Hermione knew, but when they did, it was always exciting for everyone involved. The US judicial system, different from the British one, allowed and sometimes even demanded verified pensieve evidence in court. Since a number of refugees had made their way into the States during the first and second Death Eater Wars, few Americans were in doubt as to the guilt of any Death Eaters the British Ministry had released due to 'insufficient evidence'.

So any time a known 'innocent' Death Eater travelled across the pond, American aurors dogged their every step, just waiting for them to put one toe out of line on American soil. But few ever did.

And now there was supposedly a group of no less than twelve known Death Eaters - all the major ones left! - travelling to San Francisco together, and suspected of wanting to kill a man at a muggle BDSM event?

Hermione didn't know why the head of the aurors hadn't included the in-depth report she knew must already exist someplace in the note he sent her; after all, who in their right minds would think she _wouldn't _dig deeply into this first chance she got?

And then she'd seen the magazines.

Hell.

Hermione hadn't known Harry was still alive. Every single locator spell and ritual she had performed after the end of the war had come back empty, her best friend's magical signature nowhere to be found. Hermione had delved deeply into the theory of magic-neutralizing force fields, followed the research into wizards being turned into squibs due to traumatic experiences and related phenomena for years, but nothing she turned up brought her any closer to finding her best friend and rescuing him, or at least laying his body to rest.

And suddenly there he was, a captive of the Death Eaters that were supposed to come within her purview in a matter of days; and pensieved evidence of his torture at their hands displayed for the amusement of the sadistic crowd in a muggle fetish publication.

What the ever-loving fudge.

Hermione wasn't generally prone to swearing, but the moment the reality of what she was seeing penetrated her brain, every single employee fled her wing of the ministry in fear of her wrath.

Twenty minutes later, she sat silently seething, trying to _reparo_ the magazine back into shape after she had torn it into minuscule confetti in her fit of rage. A knock on her door caused her to finally give up and _evanesco_ the entire mess. She knew the name of the rag, it should be easy enough to replace.

"Come," she growled.

David Carter, Head Auror and an okay guy to work with, stuck his head into her office and asked if it was safe to enter.

Hermione heaved a huge breath and let it out slowly. "Yes, I think so. Sorry, David, I am not entirely myself today."

"I heard," David agreed. "Is it something I can maybe help you with?"

Hermione smiled weakly. She opened with: "Thanks for being such a good friend," then went on to explain how the pensieved memories of torture published for mass entertainment had shocked her. "I know it isn't illegal per se, but it seems such a terrible violation of the victim's privacy. I wonder if maybe we should widen the laws against misuse of private memories to cover muggle publications. Just because it hadn't come up before doesn't make it right."

"I agree," David said. "If it were anyone but the victim himself publishing these pictures, I'd be the first in line to harass the living daylights out of them, laws or not."

Hermione's mouth fell open in shock. "You mean Ha- the... the victim... he's alive?!"

David's eyes narrowed. "This isn't your usual spiel of taking every case a bit too personally, Hermione. What connection do you have to this case?"

"Tell me first," Hermione demanded. "The man in those pictures. Is he alive?"

David measured her with a probing glance, then caved. "I can't tell for sure, but I think so. The protagonist is supposed to appear live on stage in four days. The articles seem to be building up to openly denouncing the remaining Death Eaters, and this month they showed the face of a living, 'innocent' Death Eater for the first time. And right on the heels of that, the whole lot of them decide to travel to America to see a live show of the series' protagonist. Don't you think that's a bit suspicious?"

"They are here to kill him," Hermione realized with a burst of cold, desperate clarity. "They're going to kill Harry. Again."

* * *

Explaining their history, hers and Harry's, to David had taken the rest of the day. They both left work early, much to the relief of Hermione's employees, and set up shop in a quiet corner of a mostly empty diner far from the governmental complex.

Hermione caught more than one wondering look in David's eyes while she spoke of her childhood at Hogwarts and the many adventures she had gotten into with Ron and Harry. She thought she must look more alive than he had ever seen her before; she certainly felt it. Talking about Harry, now that there was hope he was still alive, made her feel free and happy in a way she hadn't allowed herself to be ever since he vanished.

But then she came to the part where Harry didn't return to Hogwarts for their sixth year; to Dumbledore announcing her best friend's death at the hands of the Death Eaters, despite the protection he was supposed to have at his relatives' place. And wasn't that just the most horrible thought ever, that he had suffered the Dursleys' abuse all those years for nothing.

Abuse, David had asked; and so Hermione had gone into detail on that account. Talking through everything, all the little and not so little hurts and ignominies Harry had suffered at the hands of the Dursleys, Dumbledore and the Ministry, and really just about everyone in the Wizarding World over the years took them past midnight. At one point, Hermione cried in David's arms, while the tough, butch auror awkwardly patted her back and said "There, there." He was utterly useless at giving comfort, but... he was _there. _Hermione clung to that for dear life.

The next day at work, Hermione was bleary-eyed and ill-tempered and while her colleagues and underlings didn't actively avoid her anymore, they certainly didn't seek out her company, either. She couldn't blame them, she wouldn't want to be around herself right now either.

The one, notable exception was once again David.

"May I come in?" he asked, in a disgustingly happy and energetic tone. Hermione hated him a little for being so chipper on just as little sleep as she had gotten.

"Sure," she all but growled in answer.

"Aren't you a fucking ray of sunshine today," David observed mildly, and okay, yes, that made her laugh in spite of herself. David grinned happily.

"Well _you _actually are," she replied. "What's the occasion?"

"I get to deliver good news," David said, throwing his arms wide like a drama queen. "Not what I usually do, so allow me to enjoy myself for a moment here."

Hermione felt her own bad mood lifting at seeing him so happy. "Who do you have such wonderful news for, then? Please tell me it's me. I could use some happy thoughts just now."

"Yes it is!" David exclaimed, pointing straight at her. "You, dear Hermione, are the winner of the Happy Surprise Award of the year!"

Laughing, Hermione got up and walked around her desk to meet him. "Alright, so spill already. What d'you got for me?"

"Harry Potter," David said. "Alive and well, and right here in the Congress complex."

Hermione's smile dropped. "Don't joke about this."

David's smile dimmed, but remained in place. "I wouldn't do that to you," he said softly.

"He's really here?" Hermione asked.

"Yes."

Hermione blinked; processed. Then suddenly her arms were around David's neck and she was kissing him furiously.

Just as his arms came up to tentatively hug her closer, she broke the kiss and took a step back. "Shit. SHIT! Sorry, David. I didn't mean to harass you. I just... I'm... ARGH!" She paced back and forth in agitation, looking down at the floor to avoid his eyes. "I'm just.... I'm really sorry."

"Don't apologize," David said, stopping her with a warm hand on one shoulder. Hermione looked up in spite of herself and found his eyes warm and happy. "I quite liked it."

All the fight drained out of Hermione as she blushed furiously.

"Would you... Once the current crisis is dealt with, would you consider going on a date with me?" David asked.

Hermione's blush deepened and she lowered her eyes. Finding some hidden strength within herself, she forced them up again to meet his, and made her mouth form the words she wanted it to say, despite the big lump in her throat currently cutting off her air supply. "Yes," she croaked, then more firmly: "Yes. I would like that very much."

* * *

David led Hermione down to one of the smaller, but highly formal conference rooms. "The President is in with them right now," he said softly.

"Them?" Hermione questioned.

"Yes," David confirmed. "Your friend is travelling in the company of one Rita Skeeter, muggle reporter and by all accounts still a thorn in the British Wizarding press's side."

"Huh." Hermione had no idea what to think about that. 'Huh' was just about the extent of her thoughts on that topic. This was not just unexpected, but so far out of her frame of reference she had literally no idea what to do with this information. "Uh, okay."

"It'll be fine," David said, wrapping her in a quick hug. And yes, of course; she'd told him of her school day encounters with Skeeter, hadn't she? He must know how weird this was for Hermione.

Something else caught her attention then. "Wait. The President?"

David lowered his eyes for a moment, then looked at her intensely. "I may have mentioned parts of your story to him when I asked him to sign a warrant for Harry Potter," he said.

"You WHAT?!" Hermione screeched. "A warrant?! What the hell were you thinking?"

David's hands came down on her shoulders, firm yet somehow soothing, as well. "I was thinking," he said, enunciating clearly, "that we need to coordinate with your friend if we don't want the Death Eaters to get him."

That sobered her up real quick. "...Right."

"Now. I'm going to go in there to talk strategy with your boy, and I admit that some arrangements need to be made ASAP, but I didn't take you here just to leave you stranded outside the door. So. You can help with those plans and talk to the guy, alright?"

And suddenly, Hermione knew with absolute certainty that David had put out that warrant for her sake. Sure, the need to coordinate was real, but they could have done that with the event organizers; they didn't really need to involve Harry directly in it, even though it was all about him. They didn't need to apprehend him the moment he set foot in the US, but David had done it anyway. For her.

"Oh my gods, thank you!" Hermione said, hugging the stuffing out of David.

It was just as she was pushing herself up on her tip toes to kiss him that the door to the meeting room opened. "I believe I heard - ah, yes, our wonderful department heads for Law and Enforcement have arrived."

Hermione and David jumped apart as though burned, both of them blushing this time. It was a little awkward to be caught out like that when they weren't even officially dating yet; and by Coulson, at that.

"I leave it to you, Ms. Granger and Mr. Carter," President Coulson said and took his leave with a brief smile and a casual wave over his shoulder. As he strolled down the corridor, they heard him mutter softly to himself: "And Phil keeps telling me how _his _charges act like a bunch of hormonal teenagers..."

Then there was Harry.

All thoughts of awkward kisses and beetles and even David were forgotten the moment Hermione laid eyes on her best friend, standing there looking uncomfortable in the large, opulent room. Uncomfortable, but unharmed, lucid; alive.

"Harry!!!" Hermione cried out, and she was already crying before she'd made it half-way across the room. "It's you, it's really you. You're alive!" Then she was there, wrapping her arms around Harry, feeling the warmth of him, his messy hair brushing against her nose where she buried it in his neck. "Harry!"

"Uh..." Harry said. "Hi, Hermione."

It took him a moment, but then he hugged her back. Different from David, Harry had always known how to give great, comforting hugs, and somehow despite all the horrors he had suffered, he hadn't lost the skill.

Hermione dissolved into a helpless puddle of tears. "I saw those articles," she cried. "I am so sorry, Harry! I tried so hard to find you, I tried and I tried, but all those spells didn't work and none of the rituals did either and it was like you had no magical signature at all and everyone was saying you were dead and eventually I just couldn't... I didn't... I'm so sorry I failed you, Harry! I'm sorry I didn't find you. You were gone and I didn't find you!" She sobbed louder, incapable now of talking while Harry silently held her.

Harry let her cry for however long it took her. Hermione thought it might have been twenty minutes, maybe more. But eventually, Harry broke his silence.

"Shhh," Harry whispered into her hair. "It's alright, Hermione. You've found me now, and I am free."

"But how?" Hermione asked, lifting her head from his neck to look at him. "How did you get out?"

Harry laughed, but it was a mirthless, brittle thing. "Aurors," he said curtly.

Hermione's eyes widened. "They knew? But then why..."

"They didn't recognize me," Harry spat. "From hero to zero, that's apparently how it goes. Neville is the Boy Who Lived now, and so a few years after I vanished, people already didn't recognize me any more. I was considered a 'useless muggle' and tossed out in the street - naked, starving, traumatized, wearing magic inhibiting cuffs, without any education and not a fucking clue what was going on."

"Oh no," Hermione breathed out, feeling sucker-punched.

"The one time I tried to enter Diagon Alley, I was thrown out by Tom the barkeep," Harry continued, "and guess who I ran into on Charing Cross road? Malfoy and Nott, still running around free as you please."

Hermione blanched. "Please tell me you got away from them then."

Harry nodded grimly. "It was a near thing, but I believe their ignorance of muggle traffic saved me. None of the wizards in the area did."

"But then..." Hermione hesitated. "Where have you been all this time?"

Harry clenched his teeth and carefully stepped out of the circle of Hermione's arms. He opened his mouth several times to answer, but closed it again each time without making a sound. Something seemed to be warring inside him, and what eventually took the victory was apparently shame and a desire to shut up and avert his eyes.

"He had been betrayed by the wizarding world and he knew his relatives would never help him," a cold, clear voice said. Hermione startled; she had forgotten Skeeter was supposed to be in the room, as well. The woman had been standing right next to Harry this entire time, but Hermione, having eyes only for her not-dead best friend, hadn't even noticed.

Now, Skeeter wrapped her arms around Harry and he sank gratefully into her embrace.

"You alright with me telling her?" Hermione heard the woman ask softly. She saw Harry's head nod against her chest and a moment later, Skeeter's hard eyes focused on her.

"Imagine, if you will, a twenty-year old young man without any money, education or magic, pumped full of aphrodisiacs and chucked out into the streets of London. Where do you think he ended up?"

Hermione's hand came up to cover her mouth. She could see it all too clearly. "How did you find him?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

Skeeter snorted unladylike. "You may remember I'm not the most moral person," she began. "Long story short: I went to a kinky brothel, and there he was."

Hermione buried her face in her hands and cried some more. David stepped up behind her and drew her into a comforting hug, and wow he was a fast learner; this one already felt a lot safer and warmer than his first attempt had been. Hermione wanted to crawl into his embrace and forget what she had just heard.

Also, she really didn't need the image of Skeeter with Harry. That was so very wrong on so many levels... But, well. They were here _together. _

_Hermione,_ she told herself firmly, _don't be a jerk. If that's what Harry needs, that's what he needs._ Straightening her back, she turned around to face Harry and Skeeter again, grateful that David kept his hands loosely around her hips, anchoring her.

"Harry," she said softly, and he turned his face toward her, leaving the protection of Skeeter's embrace in turn. "I am so, so sorry for what happened to you," Hermione said, looking him in the eyes and willing him to understand how much she meant that.

She thought he did, for his reply of "Thank you, Hermione. That means a lot." sounded entirely as heart-felt and real as her own proclamation had been.

For a few heartbeats, there was silence. Skeeter was the one to break it. "So...." she said, clearing her throat and looking back and forth between Hermione and David, "heads of Juristiction and Aurors, was it? You've made quite the fast career then, Ms. Granger." An arched eyebrow implied many unpleasant things about her and David.

Hermione blushed, her old dislike of that woman slamming back into her. With a truly herculean effort, Hermione wrestled it back down and forced herself to focus on Harry rather than that harpy. "I've had very little but my work to live for," she conceded. "So, career it was."

Harry frowned, apparently seeing the same thing Skeeter had seen when she looked at them. "You are not...?"

"Oh!" David squeaked, and good grief, Hermione hadn't been aware a grown man could sound so immature. He was like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "We- we aren't..." He was looking back and forth wildly between Hermione and Harry.

Hermione couldn't help it; she laughed. "Relax, David! Harry and I have never been together. And Harry: No, David and I aren't a couple. Yet." She smiled up at David. "But we do have a date next Monday."

"And don't you forget it," he said in a week attempt at levity.

"Wouldn't dream of it," she replied, the warmth and happiness in her voice surprising herself. Looking back at Harry, she suddenly felt sheepish. "I'd kind of... I don't know... put my life on hold, I suppose. But yesterday, when David told me there's a chance you are still alive, I felt alive myself for the first time in ten years and I just kind of..."

This time, it was Harry who looked away in embarrassment. "I've been free for six years now," he said, then winced as Skeeter stepped on his toes with her sharp heels. "Ow. Yeah, okay, fine: Three years, and the time at _Exotic Dreams_ doesn't count. But. You know." He peered up at Hermione from underneath his fringe. "Sorry for not telling you sooner?"

Hermione huffed. "Like you even knew where I was! Please, Harry. This is a damn ridiculous thing to be blaming yourself for, so just don't, okay?"

Harry grinned sheepishly. "You sounded just a little American, there, 'Mione."

Trying for the most awful Southern Drawl she had ever heard, Hermione replied with: "Damn straight I did."

They all laughed, and for a moment, all was right with the world.

* * *

A while later, they got down to the actual planning, and Harry and Skeeter seemed amazed that they truly hadn't been arrested for bringing their seedy trade into the US, but rather so that Hermione and David could plan out their protection detail for the duration of their stay, as well as coordinate their efforts to apprehend the Death Eaters. Also, they were offered citizenship for their protection - just in case.

Hermione wanted nothing more than to take a few days' leave and travel to San Francisco with Harry, talk to him all day and night and enjoy the fact that he was here and alive and still capable of laughing freely and happily. That was so much more than she had ever expected!

But she couldn't. The most important thing right now was to get everything ready to put those Death Eaters behind lock and key once and for all. So she had to stay here and work out the details with David and the rest of both of their departments.

The one thing she allowed herself was to be actually present when it all went down. So she pulled out a mildly risqué black dress, took an early evening portkey to San Francisco and made her way through the raucously celebrating crowd toward the event location. Upon arrival, she made her presence known to David by way of her smartphone; it wouldn't do now to alert the Death Eaters to the presence of American wizards. David directed her to the back entrance and she furtively slipped inside.

She had wanted to be here. She had personally had a hand in all the arrangements and she had insisted that she needed to be on-site to watch over her friend while he was literally tied up and vulnerable.

But then, when it came right down to it, she couldn't watch.

It wasn't that SM was abhorrent to her. She wasn't personally into it, but she realized that different things did it for different people, and that was alright. But this? She knew it was a show, a game, and something Harry actually got off on. But watching while her best friend was brutally beaten and fucked by man after man, all of them clad in Death Eater robes when she _knew_ he had actually been raped and tortured by Death Eaters for years - it was too much. The tears streaming down his face, the helpless cries of pain - She just. She... She couldn't.

Just.

No.

What she could do, however, and gladly did, was watch over the Order members and Death Eaters the aurors brought back. Every one of them was relieved of their wand and put into - yes - magic inhabiting cuffs. The things were quite rare, actually, but the President had allowed her to bring their entire stock for the occasion.

Hermione revelled in seeing them wear the fucking things, especially the Death Eaters and the older members of the Order. Once an hour had passed, Hermione was viciously pleased to notice that not only were all of the Death Eaters who they had appeared to be, but that Dumbledore himself was among the captured Order members.

Oh happy day, she thought to herself as he knelt before her.

The lot of them had been hit with silencing spells and told to signal with their bound hands if they needed to pee or wanted some water. The insanely large auror detail guarding them made sure nobody abused those privileges.

Harry took a long time to come around backstage. Hermione didn't mind. Skeeter had updated her on the altered plans for the show, and as long as Harry was enjoying himself, Hermione was quite happy to keep these gentlemen and ladies waiting on their knees.

Finally, a rush of applause went up from the main area of the club. On and on the cheering went, and Hermione was almost convinced Harry had decided to spontaneously give autographs or some such when the door to the back room opened and Harry and Skeeter stepped in. Skeeter was still wearing the fake Death Eater robe while Harry was wearing... some bruises, a lot of pale, sticky goo Hermione wasn't going to think about, and a pleased, but cruel smirk.

"Mister Potter," Hermione greeted him formally, "would you please identify for the record which of these people you accuse of having committed crimes against you."

"Gladly," Harry said with a smile that showed too many teeth. He briskly walked over to the first Death Eater in the line, who looked up at him with an ugly mix of hatred and condescension. "Augustus Rookwood," Harry began. "Repeated rape, torture, breath reduction to the point of loss of consciousness, imprisonment, withholding of magic, … Oh, do you need details on the types of torture? There were beatings, broken bones, all manner of sexual torture, humiliation, partial flaying, removal of toe and finger nails, ample use of the _Cruciatus_ curse, the ...ugh, if we're doing the catalogue of the curses, this will take _forever!_...."

"This will suffice for now, Mister Potter," Hermione stopped him, feeling green around the gills and thankful for the bad lighting that might keep it from showing on her face. "Just the names and major crimes will do for now."

Harry nodded at her, then proceeded quickly down the line of Death Eaters. Even just the major categories of the crimes took a while to list for most of them; and for Lucius Malfoy (Yes! They got Malfoy! Hermione couldn't wait to force some veritaserum down that scumbag's aristocratic throat), Harry just couldn't seem to restrict himself to only the major ones, spitting crime after crime into the blond arse's hateful face. A couple of Death Eaters, however, Harry just silently stared at and said: "Non-consensual sexual encounters." Not rape, Hermione noted; just 'non-consensual sexual encounters'. It amounted to the same thing in legalese, of course; but there seemed to be an important distinction here for Harry. She also noted that these particular two didn't glare at Harry like the others had done, but rather lowered their gazes as though in shame.

She'd have to ask Harry about that later.

Harry came to the end of the line of Death Eaters, but rather than stop, he went right on to the Order members. "Arabella Figg," he said, "complicit in on-going child endangerment and child abuse." He glared down for a moment at the baffled-looking old lady, then took a step further and looked down at Fred and George.

"Guys, good to see you." He nodded at them and they looked awfully relieved, but then rallied and grinned up at him.

Harry continued on, accusing all the older Order members of child endangerment, brainwashing and training of child soldiers. Finally, he came to Dumbledore.

"Albus Dumbledore," he said slowly. "Severe child endangerment, child abuse, brainwashing, training of child soldiers on multiple counts, abuse of position, obfuscation of justice, conscious hindering of rescue efforts. - I blame you personally for the four years I spent as a Death Eater sex toy, just so you know."

Dumbledore, who had been gracing Harry with his patented No.1 Disappointed Grandfatherly Look blanched at that.

Harry once more bared his teeth in a parody of a smile, then stepped past Dumbledore to the last Order member in the line. "Ron," he said. "Good to see you, mate."

Ron mutely nodded at him, eyes wide and leaking tears.

"I believe that's everyone," Harry said to Hermione. "Charlie's still out in the Club, but he still has his auror escort, and I got nothing to accuse him of anyway, so. I think we're done?"

Hermione nodded, studiously avoiding a closer look at all that naked, bruised skin Harry was so blithely parading about.

"You won't need me until the first trial, right?" Harry asked.

Hermione agreed. "We will let you know when we need your witness account in court."

"Great!" Harry said, clapping his hands like a little child. "Then I believe I have a party to get back to." With those words, he took Skeeter by the hand and dragged the woman out of the room, ignoring her look heavenwards and her prayer for the gods to let brains rain down for those who clearly needed them.

Hermione smiled. No matter their past quarrels with the woman, she now really seemed to have taken Harry's well-being to heart. Looking back down at their many captives, the smile transformed into a feral grin. "Alright. David, I believe every one of these drew their wands out there at some point of the evening, endangering the statute and in some cases, actively trying to harm fellow wizards and muggles?"

Her colleague nodded gravely. "True, with the exception of the youngest Weasley."

Hermione's smile sharpened. "Then let's take them all to the compound. Mister Potter has already given us some indication of the severity of the charges to be levelled against them, but for now, I believe a night in custody will do all of them some good. Ron, you stay here."

The aurors made quick work of preparing everyone for transport, then portkeying out. Hermione was left with Ron and David. "You're going to be alright?" David asked in a worried tone.

"I'll be fine," Hermione reassured him. "The show's over now, and it was really mostly the Death Eater robes that disturbed me. Nothing is going to happen that I need to be present for over the weekend, so I'm going to stay here and try to talk to Harry some more. ...Aaand Ron, I suppose," she added, looking down at her still kneeling ex. "Alohomora," she said almost as an after-thought, taking hold of his cuffs when they came off and handing them to David. "Please put those disgusting things somewhere I can't accidentally obliterate them."

"Will do," he promised. "I'll see you Monday," he said, kissed her on the cheek and activated his portkey.

"See you," Hermione replied, her hand unconsciously reaching for the cheek that seemed to burn pleasantly where he had kissed it.

"You're in love," Ron's voice shook her out of her reverie. Turning toward him, she found that he had risen from his knees and was now leaning back against a dusty table, hands absent-mindedly rubbing at his wrists. He was looking at her with a mix of fondness and regret.

"I think I am," Hermione agreed.

"I hope he'll be good for you," Ron said quietly. "You deserve the best."

Hermione smiled sadly at him. "Thank you. I don't know that I deserve him, but I do want him."

Ron chewed his lip. "I... I'm sorry we didn't work out, back then. But I don't think either of us was _working right_ at the time, so how could anything possibly have worked out anyway?"

Hermione nodded glumly. He was right about that. "I couldn't really be with anyone and play at being happy while I still didn't know if Harry was still alive somewhere. I just couldn't."

Ron cocked his head. "So you and David...?"

"An _extremely_ recent thing," Hermione confirmed. "As in, we first kissed right after he told me that Harry is alive and here, and we haven't even had our first date yet."

Ron chuckled. "Once your heart has made a decision, you go all in, don't you? Always have."

"It's just that I didn't have a whole heart to give when we tried," Hermione said sadly. "Such a large part of it was still out looking for Harry."

"I know," Ron said. "I don't blame you."

His tone said more than his words; Ron was rather blaming himself for having stopped looking.

Hermione said nothing.

For a while, they shared the silence in the dusty back room. Eventually, though, Hermione grew anxious. "So..." she said, "want to go check on Harry?"

"You mean, go back out into that club where everyone is probably fucking by now, and where Harry will be right in the thick of it?"

Hermione's lips quirked. "We've followed Harry into some pretty crazy adventures. What's one more?"

"What indeed," Ron agreed.

Hermione reached for her own bottle of polyjuice, morphing into an average-looking young man. Then, side by side, they left the dusty room behind and walked off towards one more shared adventure.


	7. Aftermath

"Mister Potter," Augusta Longbottom said in her usual stern voice, "very kind of you to come visit us. Do come in, young man."

The old lady waved him inside. She looked much smaller than Harry remembered her, hunched over and somehow diminished, as though that pride with which she used to carry herself had finally burned out. Loss and grief would do that to a person, Harry knew; but also, she was terribly old.

Harry took a hesitant step into the forebodingly dark entry hall and jumped like a startled hare when the huge portal slammed shut behind him. "Have you come all alone, dear?" The old matriarch demanded in a tone that missed solicitous by a mile and landed somewhere close to an interrogation. That, at least, was exactly how he remembered it.

"I... yes, I have," Harry said. "Should I have brought Ron, or Luna, or...?" Maybe Neville couldn't often have visitors, what with his bad health, and they should have come together to make the most of it?

"No dear," the old witch said with an odd quality to her tone, "that's quite alright." While Harry was still trying to puzzle out what rubbed him the wrong way about Mrs. Longbottom's voice, the old lady suddenly straightened up, her formerly hunched back unfolding like a flower toward the sun. "All clear!" she shouted in a voice that was anything but old and frail.

Bright light erupted in the hall as every candle in the chandelier lit with gaudily flickering flames. The portraits lining the hall stopped scowling and some of them waved and smiled at Harry. Flabbergasted, he looked at Mrs. Longbottom, intent on asking her what the hell was going on here. But he never got a chance.

A door slammed open in the upper hallway, then hurried steps ran toward them at a fast pace and before Harry could look for cover, Neville appeared at the top of the stairs, which he then took two at a time, grinning widely as his eyes found Harry's and he ran straight toward the other man.

Startled, Harry reacted the only way he really could: He opened his arms and braced for impact.

His efforts were rewarded with an arm full of happily giggling Neville. The young man wrapped his own arms fiercely around Harry and pulled him in close. "Harry! Damn, it's good to see you!"

"And you," Harry agreed, slightly winded from where Neville was hugging the stuffing out of him.

"Neville," the man's gran scolded, "let your friend breathe."

"Oh. Huh," Neville said. "Sorry, gran; and sorry, Harry. I usually have better manners than that." He gave his gran a cheeky grin. "It's just that I've had so little occasion to use them, lately."

"And _I'm_ the one you dust them off for?" Harry asked, raising one sceptical eye-brow. "Has nobody told you what I do for a living these days?"

Neville gave a snort that was certainly outside of the noble wizard's book of approved interactions, as well.  "Oh, but they have. Have they ever."  His gran didn't object  to the snort; might have been because she had taken herself off to the kitchen to see to some refreshments. 

By the time she came back out, she found both boys  with their heads bent over some colourful magazines and her nephew's laptop. Harry thought  that the old Mrs. Longbottom probably didn't much care for muggle technology, but nonetheless she apparently respected it enough to cancel her levitation charm and carry in her full tray by hand when she saw that the gadget was powered on. 

Meanwhile, Neville was demonstrating his tech-savviness to Harry by  proudly displaying the articles and guest accounts written about  _Their Toy's _ show at the Folsom Street Fair on fetlife and other relevant sites. 

"Neville," Harry whispered, "won't your gran object?"

"It's fine," Neville replied. "She's the one that bought me the laptop after  the twins tipped her off."

Harry's mouth dropped open. 

Neville smirked. "It's a bit of a long story."

Snapping his jaws shut, Harry narrowed his eyes at Neville. "Has it  any connection to the fact that you look surprisingly chipper for a nerve-damaged, traumatized victim?"

"Right back at'cha!" Neville said happily; but then he grinned a smug grin and explained: "And yes, right on the money. See, when Dumbledore told me  that you had died  and I was the Boy Who Lived now, I kind of knew my days were numbered..."

And so Neville had, apparently, plotted and planned with his gran and the three youngest Weasley boys, all of whom he trusted not to go running to Dumbledore after the man had given Harry up for dead without any proof.  They had not disappointed him.  When push came to shove, they had his back, and when the opportunity presented itself to fake a horrendous hit, Neville took it.  He made his hasty exit from that battle, miming the near-fatally wounded victim as  a disillusioned  Fred dragged his limp ass to safety;  they left Dumbledore to deal with the deranged Dark Lord.

With the help of a  trustworthy  healer,  Neville had been declared comatose and taken back to his family's manor to be cared for by his loving grandmother - safely out of the public eye and away from Dumbledore, who they suspected might just be ruthless enough to make Neville disappear should the young man be inclined to publicly question Dumbledore's version of events. 

Neville hadn't questioned it; he already knew it was a lot of bull. But he also knew what it would cost him to say so. And so his gran had kept him hidden, restricting access to the manor to a chosen few, and keeping out those who would only wish to use and abuse her only surviving family. Nobody had questioned her paranoia; after all, the Death Eaters had really been out to get her nephew.

Meanwhile, Neville happily puttered about in the manor's extensive gardens and greenhouses. He enjoyed the occasional visits from his few trusted friends, but otherwise conducted a rather reclusive existence. Maybe that wasn't the life he'd have chosen for himself, but it was a damn sight better than anything he could have expected had he not withdrawn from the public eye in such a drastic manner.

"Not bad," Harry said admiringly when Neville had finished. "You did really well at protecting yourself."

Neville sighed. "I just wish I could have protected you, too."

Harry smiled forlornly. "Yes. That would have been nice."

"Aw, come here," Neville said, pulling Harry into another embrace. Grumbling into Harry's hair, the now taller man said: "What is it about you that makes me just want to cuddle you forever?"

"All part of my deviant charm," Harry piped up.

"Suuuure," Neville drawled. "But, speaking of which: Congratulations on your performance. I hear your fans really loved it." He pointed to the numerous articles and private endorsements Fred and George had apparently brought to his attention.

"You... don't think it's weird?" Harry asked nervously. Neville was an old pureblood, for Merlin's sake! He was supposed to be very much behind on muggle customs and sexual liberation.

But Neville just grinned at him. "Weird? Sure. But then, you've always been an odd duck, so why not? I mean, if it works, it works. Who am I to criticize?"

"That's... great, actually. Thank you, Neville!" Harry said, feeling the beginnings of a real smile twitching in the corners of his mouth. "Oh, and thank you for killing Voldemort, of course," he added with the tone of someone offering thanks for holding the door open or something.

"No problem," Neville answered just as casually, "my pleasure, really."

They both snickered. Like either of them had ever even come close.

"So," Harry said after awhile. "If you've heard of San Francisco, you must know Dumbledore has been tried in the US court and will remain in prison for some time for his numerous crimes. Are you still going to stay in hiding?"

"No." The answer was immediate and confident. Clearly, Neville had given this some thought. He looked up at Harry now and his eyes held a fire Harry had never seen in them before. "I hate that the world I grew up in has done this to you, to both of us. I hate that people like Voldemort and Fudge and Dumbledore can be powerful here, while Hermione has to emigrate to the US in order to have a career. I hate that but for the fact that you ran into Rita Skeeter, of all the people to go to for help -, you might have remained in that place, bound by those cuffs, for the rest of your days.I hate that had you actually been a muggle, nobody would care even now." 

Harry looked at his old friend with wide eyes. Neville seemed to be burning with some internal fire,  energy fairly bursting out of him, a light dancing in his eyes and his every intention set on scorching the earth on which  his entire world was built. 

"You're going to attack the system," Harry breathed in awe. 

Neville smiled at him, head held high and for once, every inch the pureblood heir. " I'm going to  _ use _ the system.  I am the heir to the Longbottom seat, you've got Potter and Black. Since seven of the highest-ranking Death Eaters are  now  on death row across the pond, the Wizengamot is seriously undermanned. Between you, me and Luna, we actually hold fifteen percent of the current legislative power. That's gotta count for something."

Harry had been thinking of emigrating to the US, as Hermione had offered. But... A slow smile spread across his features. "Not to mention,  we are the Boys Who Lived."

Neville barked out a short, hard laugh. "Are we ever!"

And, true. By rights, neither of them should still be alive. What were the odds, really? But alive they were, and  alive they intended to stay. 

"Boys Who Lived for the win!" Harry shouted, and they both broke down laughing.

* * *

Harry had to leave in the early evening, but he promised to be back the next day for some serious planning. The last time he had looked forward to something this much, it had been going on stage in San Francisco.

He still thought he might go professional in that area, since nothing else seemed to really be working out. Might be a bit hard to work into his schedule as a politician, though. Another snort left his nose unbidden at the absurd thought of combining life as a porn star with pushing for serious reforms on the political stage. But, as Neville had said, Harry had always been an odd duck; if this was truly what his life was meant to be, then by the gods, he would make it work.

"So where are you off to in such a hurry? Got a date?" Neville asked good-naturedly.

Harry grinned. "As a matter of fact, I do."

"Rita not busy tonight with that press gala in Washington, then?" Neville asked, surprised. His disbelief was well-founded; after all, Rita Skeeter, author of the brand-new biography titled "The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore", was the event's special guest. 

"Who said anything about dating her?" Harry asked cheekily.

Neville pushed a finger into Harry's chest. "Alright, mister; spill."

Nearly dancing in place in anticipation, Harry easily stepped aside to let Neville's finger slide off. "I don't know how much Ron told you, but there's a ton of things I haven't really told him about yet, either. So. One of those would be my inability to be satisfied with just one partner. Rita is great, really, and I don't think I could have survived the past three years without her; but I still go out hunting for more encounters at fairly regular intervals."

"Ah," Neville said, and Harry wasn't sure whether it was disapproval or just discomfort lacing his friend's voice, but then Neville went on: "So it's that kind of date, then?"

"Not exactly," Harry laughed. Growing a little more serious, he explained: "So far, I'd really just roamed the streets at night and gone soliciting. - Don't look at me like that, I told you that's how I've been making my way for years, don't act all surprised now! - But, anyway, that's not what this is. Rita has a theory that I may need several, but not necessarily constantly changing partners. So I'm trying to see if maybe more than just one steady partner will do it for me. Would certainly be safer than walking the streets every other weekend, anyway."

"Okay," Neville said, sounding a lot less disapproving now, "that does sound safer." And he actually had the gall to add: "I approve."

"Fuck you," Harry said, grinning to show he didn't mean it. "You may be a day older than me, but that doesn't mean you can go all big brother on me."

"Aw, but who's going to watch out for my widdle baby brother if I don't do it?"  Neville teased.

Harry, however, unexpectedly felt something warm and tender blossoming inside him. "Brothers," he said softly. "Actually, I quite like that."

Neville  looked at him with fond, brown eyes . "So do I."

They hugged.

Finally, Neville detached himself from Harry's arms. "Well, go get your girl then."

"It's... not really a girl," Harry said.

"Man, then," Neville said, waving his hand in a negligent 'whatever'.

"Something like that," Harry agreed, snickering at Neville's confused frown.

"What do you...?"

"Bye Neville," Harry said quickly, "and bye, Mrs. Longbottom! I'll see you both tomorrow!" He  quickly apparated out before Neville had another chance to question him.  Harry grinned. He knew for sure Neville would ask him about every detail tomorrow, but that was fine. Harry just didn't want to jinx himself by talking about this beforehand, in case it didn't work out. 

He was pretty confident, though.

Entering the little hipster restaurant in Camden, he immediately spotted his date.

"Hello Harry," Charlie said, waving him over to the corner table.  And wow, clad in a tight shirt and black dragon-leather pants, the man looked good enough to eat. 

The two men sitting with their backs to the door turned around at their exchange.

"Hi Harry," the twins shouted  in unison.

Yeah, Harry thought, this might actually work.

  
  


~ The end. ~

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for reading along! Your kudos and occasional comments made this a lot of fun to post. : )  
If you have a minute, please leave me a comment and let me know what you did and didn't like. Like most fanfic authors, I crave feedback; positive comments are great, but concrit is very welcome, too.


	8. Bonus Chapter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On popular demand: 19 weeks later... 
> 
> Thank you everyone for the amazing response to this fic! Several people asked me to write more about Harry and his new playmates, and also about his political carreer. I felt the fic truly needed that so I sat down to write a tiny bonus chapter. Somehow, that never goes very well for me and the 'tiny bonus chapter' is nearly half the length of the entire fic. Oh well.
> 
> Also, I really have no idea how the _tentacles_ came into it! I swear they were not part of my plan! (I blame Quarra's fics, though, for making tentacle porn seem like a good idea.) Now I don't know if I managed to write *good* tentacle porn, here, but I sadly can't deny that part of this chapter *is* tentacle porn. 
> 
> Take it or leave it.

_"Now,” his mistress's voice commanded and the toy inside him began to move. Harry moaned. He began kissing his way up her dragon-hide clad shin with renewed ardour, eager to reach his destination and just as eager to worship every inch of her along the way._

_But as his ministrations reached the top of the elegant boot, he was barred from advancing further up her beautiful, pale leg by a large, calloused hand. "Stay down there like a good little pet," a voice demanded gruffly. Uttering a dismayed whine, Harry obeyed. _

_Switching to the other leg, he kissed his way back down to the tip of his mistress's toes. There, crouched on his knees, he paused for a moment awaiting further instruction. He got it in the form of a riding crop pushing up his chin; meanwhile, a boot between his shoulder blades - not a sleek, dragon-hide beauty, but a solid combat boot this time - made it abundantly clear that his head was the only part of his upper body he was allowed to raise. He ended up with his back arched at an uncomfortable angle, chest flat on the ground with his head and ass sticking up on either end. _

_The additional pressure did interesting things to the round, flat clamps attached to his nipples. Harry wiggled a little to test the effect, then gasped when his own motion inadvertently turned one of the clamps on its edge, tripling the strain on that nipple. The toy in his ass buzzed more strongly as though in reaction to Harry's gasp and he felt sweat break out between his shoulder blades. _

_"Very nice," his mistress said approvingly. Harry preened a little. Inwardly. He knew better than to smile outright, because... ah, yes, there it was. _

_The riding crop trailed across his lips. Harry hastened to kiss it. Had he been smiling widely, he might have missed his chance to show his devotion, and that would have been bad. He liked being good for his mistress, and for his masters. Good things came to good pets, with these masters. He was going to be so good for them, so good!_

_The riding crop lightly tapped against his cheek. "You up for a nice spanking, pet?"_

_"Yes, master," Harry answered breathlessly. "Yes, please!" He eagerly wiggled his bum, happy for its elevated status that made it such a lovely target for his master. He loved looking inviting. _

_"Turn around a little," his mistress said, her boot's sharp toe replacing the riding crop under his chin and directing him to turn until he was looking straight up between her legs. Since she was wearing nothing but her shiny boots and some lingerie, this was a very lovely angle indeed. _

_Harry had no time to savour the view, however. The riding crop came down on his temptingly raised ass and the toy inside him buzzed to a higher frequency at the same time. "Guh," Harry moaned. A quick tremor ran through him on the heels of the instinctive flinch at the impact. So many years, and still he flinched every time he couldn't see a hit coming. It was aggravating. _

_Another hit fell, then another, and little by little Harry stopped thinking. He didn't get lost inside his own head, however, no matter how much he wanted to let go and ride that high... because that nasty little toy kept changing frequencies on him at the most inopportune moments. And, wait, was it vibrating out a repeating rhythm now? _

_Buzz... buzz...buzz.... buzz, bu-buzz, buzz, bu-buzz..._

_Buzz... buzz...buzz... buzz, bu-buzz, buzz, bu-buzz..._

_Between the ongoing spanking, one of his mistress's boots caressing his cheek, and the continuous stimulation of his prostate driving him insane, it took a moment for the sickle to drop. But finally it did. _

_"Guys," Harry gasped out, "you have got to be fucking kidding me!!!" _

_"Pet," his mistress's sharp voice rang out like the slap of a whip, "how dare you address us like this?!"_

_Harry tried to hug her leg, found his arms still tied behind his back as they had been from the start, and instead settled for rubbing his cheek against her thigh in apology. "I am so, so sorry, mistress! I did not mean to curse, and I did not mean to disrespect you!"_

_"So why did you?" his mistress demanded, slightly mollified by his tactile and verbal apology but still sounding disgruntled. _

_"It's just... Those idiot twins are having the toy vibrating to the Imperial March!" He turned his head as much as his already twisted position allowed and glared at the two men sprawled on the sofa. Fred cheerily waved his wand at Harry, while George was busy stifling his laughter in his twin's shoulder. _

_"Is that so?" Rita demanded, now sounding amused rather than cross. _

_"Maybe we can have the music to go with the rhythm so we can all enjoy it alongside Harry?" Charlie suggested mildly, waggling his eyebrows at his brothers. _

Ba-ba-ba-baaam! _rang out through their living room as a wave of George's wand. Harry shrieked as Beethoven's fateful fortissimo hit his prostate like a battering ram. "You are nuts, all of you!" he groaned. "Nuts!!!"_

…

"Harry,” a voice hissed, quietly but urgently. "Harry!”

"Huh?” Harry blinked. "Wha-?” He tried to wipe the corner of his mouth inconspicuously in case he had drooled during his little daydream.

"Sombremot has finally stopped soliloquising,” Neville explained below his breath.

"Thank Merlin, the fates and the holy goat!” Harry exclaimed, earning a few disapproving glances from the elder members of the Wizengamot. Neville chuckled, but soon turned serious again. "Are you awake enough to make the speech or should I?”

"Nah, relax. I've got this,” Harry said and stood up.

"Fellow members of the Wizengamot -” and didn't it feel good to know how much it grated on the nerves of at least thirty percent of the present members that Harry Potter, failed saviour and openly gay, promiscuous, vociferous opponent to the current system, must be included in that number - "I'd like to thank Lord Sombremot for this edifying speech.”

All of them had surely seen him slumped over his desk, completely zoned out, yet none protested his words. Ah, gotta love those antiquated manners! So useful.

"However, despite the many good arguments contained therein,” - Harry was convinced there had been exactly zero arguments of any value in the old pureblood's ranting, as usual; but alluding to it in a roundabout way was a lot more fun. He heard Neville stifling a snicker at his side. "- I feel obligated to point out that the core position of the pureblood fraction is utterly untenable.”

Harry felt all his hurt pride and anger, on his own behalf and that of his fellow muggleborns out there – for all intents and purposes, he_ was_ muggleborn - , rush through him. It gave him the strength to face down this hall filled with people who would call themselves his elders an betters and get right up into their collective faces. "It is _not_ true that the muggleborns are a small, unimportant part of the Wizarding society and that they have nothing to contribute.”

Harry didn't know what look was on his face now, but judging by how the wizards in the row below him not-so-subtly leaned away from him, he hoped he looked scary as hell. "First of all,” he said, making his voice snap like Rita's whip, "the current birth rates of muggleborns versus purebloods is at around one to three; but of those pureblood-born, about a third are squibs. That's what you get for inbreeding, folks. Also,” Harry couldn't help but frown at this, "child death rates in pureblood offspring are much higher than in any other demographic and one has to wonder if the actual rate of pure-bred squibs isn't a lot higher than the official numbers.”

Outraged shouts of denial echoed through the chamber, but there were also a few thoughtful looks and quiet conversations among the liberals; and even some representatives of the older families of a lighter persuasion looked torn.

"Even without taking the dark figure into account, we are left with muggleborns making up thirty percent of our society. That is _not_ an insignificant number!” Harry forced himself to look at each angry pair of eyes and stare right back at them until they lowered or averted their gazes. Some of them stubbornly tried to out-stare him, but it only took a tiny smirk or coquettish flutter of his eyelashes to make those particular men look away. After all, who amongst them would want to be suspected of fraternizing with the muggle-loving whore in their midst?

Harry knew he wouldn't get anywhere by alienating everyone. Also, his angry thoughts had caused him to lose some of his momentum. Luckily for him, he was not alone.

Neville stood up and neatly took over where Harry had left off. "As Lord Potter just said -" and Harry imagined he could hear the gnashing of teeth from purebloods around the hall at the reminder that yes, Harry Potter was a lord, and yes, he was no less entitled to a seat on the august ruling body of the wizarding world than they were.

Neville went on to calmly, yet inexorably tear down the pureblood edifice of self-indulgent propaganda, never losing his cool like Harry had done and thus convincing a lot more of the older members of his rational, dignified point of view.

Harry was fine with that. It was the result that counted, and in that, Harry and Neville were of one mind: The crusty, opinionated, traditional system of methodical discrimination of the "lesser bloods" had to go.

The bloodthirsty smile on his face made the Wizengamot members in the bench below him shrink back yet a little further.

* * *

By the end of the session, Harry and Neville were completely wiped out. They tiredly clambered into one of the public fireplaces one after the other to roll out onto the welcoming carpet at Longbottom Manor in a sad, lumpy pile. For a moment, they just stayed like that, too tired to move nor give a damn about what they must look like.

"The great scions of the houses Longbottom and Potter have arrived, I see," Rita's amused voice greeted them. Harry lifted his bleary eyes to see her standing in the doorway in her usual smart attire. A garishly pink blouse went with a slitted black skirt and somehow she managed to make a sequinned, green scarf work with that ensemble. What should have looked atrocious – and likely would have, on any other woman – made her look at once refined and predatory. It defied reason, Harry's sluggish brain informed him, but god how he loved that about her.

Rita came over and helped Harry to his feet with a tug on his arm and a playful swat to his bottom, freeing Neville to also clumsily scratch himself off his grandmother's carpet. The two men followed Rita into the parlour, where they found Luna hunched over a stack of parchment and a couple of college blocks, typing up the fruits of her labour on Neville's sleek new laptop. Her forehead was wrinkled in frown lines and her tongue stuck out in concentration.

Harry didn't know when Neville's home had become the unofficial headquarters of the Quibbler but he knew he very much liked it. Coming back to the apartment he shared with Rita was lovely when she was home, but often he returned to empty rooms, with Rita out doing research or networking for her next great coup. In contrast, entering Longbottom Manor after a hard day at the Wizengamot always felt like coming home. The Longbottom elves would have dinner cooking, Neville's gran was there to greet them with stiff manners and a warm smile, and more often than not, Luna or some hangers-on of Neville and Harry's progressive faction would be there, as well. There was good food and good company, and while the work sometimes continued on late into the evening, there was also laughter and happiness.

Luna had eagerly gobbled Rita right up when Harry approached her about getting Rita back into the wizarding media. Rita still followed the occasional rumour in the muggle world and cheated by using her beetle form to get a few more details before sending her latest scandal reveal to the editors, but mostly her attention nowadays was focused on the same targets as Harry's: wizarding politics and BDSM shows. It was a somewhat eclectic combination, but it worked well for them.

"So what are your plans for the weekend?" Neville asked casually as everyone dug into the perfect soufflé the elves had prepared for them. When nobody answered right away, Neville volunteered his own plans: "I intend to go visit Dean and his wife in Aberdeen. Now that I'm officially 'healed' from my injuries, I have a lot of catching up to do."

"Say hi for me," Harry said between two bites of perfectly dressed salad. Luna nodded around her mouthful, presumably to indicate 'me too'. Harry swallowed his tomato slice, then contributed: "I'm going 'round the twins' place, they said they have a couple of new inventions to show me. Rita, want to come?" He flashed her a quick smirk, followed by his best attempt at puppy dog eyes. Rita knew exactly what kind of inventions Harry was talking about and they had nothing to do with the joke shop. Harry so badly wanted her there with him! Charlie, too. But as he had come to expect, Rita politely declined, citing prior engagements as a reason.

Harry loved his mistress to bits, and he enjoyed playing with the twins as much as he enjoyed playing with Charlie. He just wished, sometimes, that they would gang up on him like they did in his fantasies. He respected their wishes, of course, and if Charlie found it weird to imagine himself in a sexual situation with his younger brothers, and Rita was reluctant to share Harry with so many people outside a show, Harry understood that. A guy could dream, though. Right?

"I'm going to meet dad and see how his snorkacks are coming along," Luna said off-handedly and all conversation ceased abruptly.

Mrs. Longbottom was the first to break the shocked silence. "Xenophilius actually found one?"

Luna smiled a smile that was just a few tiny steps short of fully present and bit into a baby potato. Chewing with relish, she left them all hanging until she was finally ready to say: "His last letter came from Madagascar, and in it he claimed he found an entire colony. Considering what else lives on Madagascar, I am fully prepared to believe him."

It was telling that after years and years of fruitless search, even Luna had begun to doubt the existence of crumple-horned snorkacks. To hear that her father might finally have found living specimens to shove in the face of his doubters was truly miraculous. Spirits rose around the table and the mood remained exalted long past the time everyone separated to go get some sleep.

Harry and Rita spent a fun hour horsing around and playing a light-hearted mockery of their usual games before they, too, collapsed on the bed and drifted off to sleep.

* * *

The next morning, Rita was already gone when Harry woke up. He lazily went through his usual morning ritual of shower, shave, shuffle into the kitchen for coffee, fix himself some breakfast and slowly wake up while leafing through the London Times or the Daily Prophet. Much as he hated the Prophet, he did need to stay informed about their opposition's stance on current politics, and the rag was the best source in existence on pureblood propaganda.

He spent the late morning scripting possible scenes for future shows, logged into a couple of websites for more inspiration and got stuck in an epic youporn spiral on the topic of German scat porn. It wasn't a kink of his and he was quite sure that neither was it going to be – ever! -, but it was weirdly fascinating to see shit presented as something erotic and alluring.

Other people's kinks had been something Harry was trained to pay close attention to in the past, by necessity, but these days he actually enjoyed researching the many things that got other people off. Some fetishes he found looked intriguing enough that he asked Rita if they could try them together, others – like this one – he preferred to 'enjoy' at a safe distance.

He blinked at his clock in irritation when it cheerfully informed him that he was 'about to be late for your date, mate!' The twins' sense of humour was something that irritated him as often as it amused him, honestly. He couldn't deny that most of their stuff was genius, though; like this clock. He wouldn't know where to even start to craft a layered work of interlocking spells like that.

Taking the annoying clock's advice to heart, Harry shut down his computer and hopped into the shower for a quick refresher before he got dressed. With a sigh, Harry forewent his pretty leathers and the latex; Fred and George had no eye for fancy clothing, and also no respect. They tore Harry's clothes while ripping them off or got them singed or otherwise ruined by their various new toys and experiments more often than not. Harry had adapted and got himself a separate wardrobe for play dates with the twins: sexy enough that he felt comfortable going into a scene wearing it, but cheap enough that he wouldn't be disturbed to see it go. Slipping on a cheap mesh shirt from New Yorker's and a cute pair of equally cheap hotpants, Harry put a few playful strokes of mascara around his eyes and dabbed a spot of red onto his lips. He topped it all off with a long robe to look inconspicuous and flooed to Diagon Alley.

The twins were just closing up the shop when Harry arrived and told him to make himself comfortable until they were ready for him. For the next twenty minutes, Harry bounced around their empty apartment, fidgety and impatient for them to come up and introduce him to their latest inventions. Oh, he knew they still needed dinner, but that didn't mean there would be no play there. One time, they had chosen to hand-feed him grapes and truffles and generally treated him like a precious lover – before initiating the most brutal session yet; then gone right back to pampering him once they were done. Another time, they had insisted on cooking together and to absolutely nobody's surprise, Harry had ended up being spanked with every single implement involved in the process, from the unyielding, solid frying pan to the surprisingly bouncy butter knife to the big wooden spoon.

Harry could also imagine another kind of hand-feeding taking place. He used to abhor games of humiliation, it had been one of his hard Nos while he worked at _Exotic Dreams. _But in the course of his relationship with Rita, and now with the many Weasleys in his life, he had slowly come to understand that it was different with people of whose respect he was sure. Fantasies had begun to creep in, of being treated as a pet, of being talked down to, kept on his knees, of being praised for performing well – that had always been a turn-on -, but also of being punished for being naughty. Now, the thought of waiting below the table for his masters' scraps like a trained dog was no longer disconcerting to him. He wanted it in the way that he wanted to do the shows: He needed to experience new things, to prove himself, to take his masters along for a ride on the crazy merry-go-round that was Harry's masochism. He wanted to offer himself up to Fred and George like a buffet, wanted them to take from him what they desired, to use him, and he wanted the pleasure of surprising them with new feats of daring, physical prowess, and devotion.

Harry shook his head at his own thoughts and dropped down on the plush red sofa in the twins' living room with a huff. His robe hit the clothes stand by the door a moment later; it wasn't like he needed it in the nicely warm apartment. But good grief, how he wanted the twins to get here already and clue him in to what they were going to do to him today.

Harry didn't even know if the twins were into humiliation! He was very up-front about his ever-changing kinks and fancies, but when he had mentioned his latest fascination, the two Weasleys had exchanged a glance Harry hadn't quite known how to read and changed the topic. Harry supposed they would tell him eventually if this kind of play was on or off the table, but until then, he'd have to be patient.

Yuck.

Harry didn't do patient very well. He did not need instant gratification, he enjoyed being mercilessly teased for hours; but he needed to be the focus of his partners' attention. He needed to feel appreciated, valued; desired. And he needed open, straight-forward conversation.

Charlie had a different approach to BDSM from his brothers. With the twins, even at their most brutal, there was always laughter, teasing, a certain lightness to everything they did. Charlie, however, preferred the old-school way of being a fun-loving guy in every-day relations, but a strict, demanding master in the bedroom. And Rita, of course, was in a class of her own. All of them shared the gratifying trait of listening to Harry when he talked about what he did and didn't like, and all of them heeded his words. But there were clear preferences.

Rita liked power, deciding when and how to let Harry come and telling him what to do for her. Charlie was here first and foremost for the pain. He enjoyed switching up his implements now and then, but he could be quite happy just working Harry over with a paddle for hours, listening to the sounds Harry would make when Charlie started in on a new spot or when he was so pumped-up on endorphins that he was nearing orgasm from the spanking alone. The twins, by contrast, liked inflicting a wide range of toys on Harry, from fancy vibrators and butt plugs to magical nipple clamps, various collars with added gimmicks, a multitude of blindfolds and gags and even the occasional urethral sound.

And the twins, different from Rita and Charlie, loved to surprise Harry. They only told him in the most general terms, if that, what they were planning on doing to him each day. Harry always arrived at their place already semi-hard with anticipation and completely clueless as to what was going to happen to him. He only knew it was going to be good, because it always was.

So it made sense for the twins not to say: "Sure, we'll do that." when Harry addressed a new kink. They wanted to keep the element of surprise, keep Harry on his toes. Part of Harry liked that. It kept things interesting and new. Another part of him deeply loathed it.

For the time being, the refreshing newness of the twins' way of doing things won out. Should he ever get tired of it, they could always talk it out and find a different mode that worked for all three of them.

Lost in his thoughts, Harry didn't hear the sound of the entrance door opening; but the loud noise when it slammed shut was impossible to miss. He startled upright from his slouched position and instantly went on high alert.

"Good, you're here," Fred said, brushing by Harry with the air of a harried businessman and going straight for a large trunk sat in a corner of the room. "We're about ready to begin testing, I believe," George added, pulling a couple of lab coats from a drawer and tossing one to his brother. Harry was somewhat impressed by Fred catching it, underhanded and without even looking. These two worked together like two heads of a runespore conspiring to bite off the third - perfect wordless communication, muscles working in concert as though belonging to one single organism. It was beautiful.

Daunting as well, though. "Mates, what's with the lab coats?" Harry asked, pulling his feet up on the sofa and hugging his knees. "You look like a couple of mad scientists."

"We do, don't we?" Fred exclaimed happily, turning from his rifling through the contents of the trunk with a triumphant "Aha!" and holding three colourful cloth bags in one hand; the other hand was wrapped around the stem of a thick, red candle. Meanwhile, George had brought a tower of tupperware from the kitchen, all of them closed; it was impossible to tell whether they held food, ice cubes or any of the dozen other possible items that might lurk in the twins' kitchen.

"Thank you for volunteering to be the beta tester for out latest range of products," George informed Harry. "If you would kindly take a seat in our examination chair, we can get this series of tests under way." With a wave of his wand, one of the wooden stools dotted here and there around the space shed the illusion it had been under and turned into a monstrous creation that looked like the illicit love-child of a dentist's chair and an iron maiden.

Harry gulped. He didn't mind being restrained, nor was he very concerned about the spikes sticking out at regular intervals - he could tell at a glance that they were distributed in such a way as to look nasty, but not actually pierce the person sitting or lying down in the torture seat. The surface seemed to be leather and metal, however the colour scheme was white and chrome rather than the more standard red and black. Harry found the evil science experiment set-up a little intimidating.

George seemed to sense Harry's hesitation. He dropped the act for the time it took to give Harry a warm smile and to softly tell him: "Just say the word and we can stop the roleplay, alright? We just thought it might be a fun scenario to try."

Reassured, Harry nodded and clambered up into the chair. As he had half expected, the manifold shackles rose into the air with a life of their own the moment his weight hit the leather seat. Several of them wrapped tightly around his ankles and upper thighs, his wrists and his upper arms. Another iron band closed around his neck and a final one pulled his forehead back against the firm upholstery, robbing him of the ability to turn or lower his head.

“Now, before we get started,” Fred said, rubbing his hands in exaggerated anticipation, “let us tell you a little more about the experiment we intend to conduct.” Throwing out his left arm in a grand gesture, he pointed to a curious contraption that Harry hadn't really noticed amongst the multitude of strange things the twins kept around their place. Between a fake ficus tree that self-inflated at random intervals, a swiss army knife that would have made Edward Scissorhands weep in rapture and a hovering carpet occasionally emitting honking noises, why would Harry have paid close attention to what looked, at first and second glance, like a regular bubble gum dispenser?

Now, of course, he couldn't take his eyes off the thing. What was it going to do?

“This is our random element for the duration of the experiment,” proclaimed George. Opening the top of the dispenser with a sweeping gesture to rival his twin's dramatics, George proceeded to feed his stack of tupperwares into the device. Fred dumped his three colourful, innocuous-looking bags on top, then George closed the dispenser. Together, the twins then explained the apparatus to Harry.

“This Randomizer now holds cut fruits and vegetables, nicely cooled -”

“- fried falafel balls, potato wedges, kept warm until consumption -”

“- and three types of sweets of our own design.”

Giving Harry their most diabolic smirks, the twins both leaned in close.

“Babbling Bubbles!” exclaimed Fred. Harry flinched, then blinked owlishly. “Bubbling what?”

“Sensitive Sours!” jubilated George. Harry frowned.

"Liberty Lozenges!" Fred beamed. "Uh, great?" said Harry, having only the vaguest of ideas what effects might be hiding behind each name.

Both twins had their widely grinning faces right above Harry's immobilized head now, and he took the chance to send them a helpless little "Huh?" in hopes of getting an explanation. As always, the twins were eager to proudly paddle their wares to their literally captive audience.

"The Babbling Bubbles do exactly what their name suggests," Fred started.

"They babble," added George, snickering.

"More precisely -"

"- they repeat your last utterance -"

"- be it a curse -"

"- a question -"

"- or a _moan-"_

"- and keep repeating it."

"Clear?" they asked in unison.

Harry wasn't entirely sure about the concept, but it seemed simple enough. Incapable of nodding his constrained head, he hummed his assent. Harry had never liked talking during scenes, and that hadn't changed much. For one thing, he preferred for his long-term partners to read his body language; he could let go a lot better if he didn't have to assign words to his needs. The other part was that he just didn't really like his own voice when he was aroused, no matter how much everyone else seemed to. So while there wouldn't be many words for the bubbles to repeat, the concept of having his moans and gasps echoed back at him ad nauseum did not really appeal. Still, the twins' inventions, despite his frequent misgivings ahead of time, tended to be largely in tune with his own desires. He would hold his peace until he saw the actual effect.

"Next: The Sensitive Sours," said Fred, straightening up some and clearly going into lecture mode. "This particular invention of Weasleys Wizarding Wheezes will increase sensations - be they pleasure, pain or just the need to pee." He smirked.

George straightened up as well. "We shall need to conduct a series of tests, here: Reaction of the test subject to stimulus as is versus under the influence of the drops."

"Of course," Fred added, smirking again, "it is entirely possible that the Sours are the first thing to pop out of the dispenser."

"In that case," George seamlessly took up the explanation where his brother left off, "we have a different series of tests lined up."

Maniacally grinning down at him once more, the twins chanted: "Reaction to increasing stimulus under the influence of the Sensitive Sours!"

Harry imagined being caressed, maybe jerked off, or hurt; first softly, barely there touches, then more and more and _more, _all the while strapped immobile into this torture chair, and every sensation being doubled or - knowing the twins' flair for the dramatic - quadrupled. It sounded as arousing as it seemed intimidating. Harry both hoped and feared that the Sensitive Sours would be the first thing to pop out of the dispenser.

"Finally," George introduced, "we have the Liberty Lozenges." Raising a hand to Harry's mouth, he whispered: "Open up, there you go," and stuck a soft kind of chewy candy in his mouth. Harry obediently chewed it; it tasted faintly of a herb Harry couldn't quite place.

With a wicked grin, Fred explained: "You have just ingested a Soft Sage."

"Perfect for long, boring meetings where you need to stay on task," George added, voice once more pitched to his salesman routine.

"Guaranteed to keep you from popping up an unfortunate stiffy," continued Fred.

"Of course," George finished with an evil glint to his eyes, _"this _particular example has been bent to our current purpose."

"It keeps you soft -"

"- but it doesn't stave off the arousal."

"Guaranteed to keep you needy, but unable to find release for up to twenty-four hours!" George crowed.

Harry gulped. "Guys...?"

"Hence the Liberty Lozenges," Fred explained. "They nullify the effect of the Sage from the moment of ingestion to the passing of the next orgasm."

Patting the Randomizer fondly, George said: "There are four Liberties in here. For your sake, I hope they'll all come up in due time. Each one allows you exactly one orgasm."

Harry meeped softly as both twins once more stuck their grinning faces right in front of his eyes. "Any questions?"

With equal parts anticipation and dread, Harry let the twins' explanations sink in. His eyes widened at all the possible scenarios this particular combination of random elements allowed for. He might be fed and tortured for hours without getting to come a single time, only to then be allowed four orgasms in a row! Or, even worse, the Liberty Lozenges might all pop up right at the start, exhausting him before the twins really got going, and then he'd have nothing left to sustain him through all the pleasurable torture they had doubtlessly planned for him. He saw himself staggering home to Rita in the evening, a complete wreck, highly aroused but soft, and incapable of doing anything about it until the following afternoon.

He just knew Rita would love to add her own tortures to the mix if it came to that.

Briefly, he wondered if he should ask whether he would get a more exhaustive antidote to the cock-block drug when he left, but...

It didn't really make sense, but somehow the idea of being sent home wanting, aroused, and more helpless than with any chastity device while not physically constrained in any way sent a hot tingle of want down Harry's spine.

No. Better not to know.

"No questions," Harry said evenly. "Ready for testing to begin."

"Very well," George said courtly, then formally announced: "Randomizer serial test of new products No. 435, 439 and 515 starting now. Test subject H.J. Potter present and -"

"You alright with this setup?" Fred interjected.

"Yes," Harry agreed, despite some very real worries about the consequences of a bad random sequence.

"And sober?" Fred continued with a wink.

"As I'll ever be," Harry answered, rolling his eyes. Drugs and alcohol held no appeal to him, but he wasn't sure if he could ever be called strictly sober, considering the cocktail of aphrodisiacs and other substances the Death Eaters had left behind in his system.

"- lucid and consenting," George finished. Summoning a clipboard, he checked a handful of boxes and filled out two lines, then banished the clipboard back to its place on a sterile and boring looking desk that Harry couldn't remember seeing there a minute ago.

"Commencing test sequence," Fred announced and turned the dial on the bubble-gum dispenser. Harry waited with baited breath for what would fall out, and was in equal parts relieved and disappointed when it was just a falafel ball. Fred wordlessly held it to his lips and Harry took it, careful not to nip Fred with his teeth. Old habits, but, well, it was only polite.

The next several items were regular food stuff, as well: Another chick-pea ball, some vegetables and a slice of persimmon. Then came an item that announced its descent into the chute with clunking noises and all three men tensed in anticipation. "Liberty Lozenge," Fred announced upon seeing the pink-and-white striped candy.

Harry's eyes bugged out. "Fuuuck...," he breathed.

The twins smirked at him.

"Initiating sensitivity testing without the influence of Sensitive Sours," George noted dryly, scribbling on his clipboard some more. "Initializing random sequence to automated five-minute intervals," he added, tapping the dispenser once with his wand. Then both twins adjusted their lab coats, Fred put on a ridiculous pair of nerdy specs, and the fun began.

First, the twins removed Harry's shirt with a flick of the wand, but left him his pants. Harry thought that didn't bode particularly well for a quick orgasm; but that wasn't what he was here for anyway, so it was fine. He revised that estimate when the twins approached him with feathers and proceeded to mercilessly tickle his chest, paying special attention to his nipples, the hollows of his armpits and the crook of his elbows, and going so far as to tickle his neck and behind his ears.

Squirming as much as his shackles allowed - which meant mostly just curling his toes and fingers and wiggling his bum - and giggling madly, Harry was having a blast; but all along he couldn't help but wonder what would happen when the twins repeated the experiment _with_ those amplifier drugs.

Somewhere along the way, what must have been five and ten minutes later, the Randomizer spat out first an apple slice, then a potato wedge, both of which Fred fed to Harry with an air of absent-minded distraction. All three men were much more focused on the feathers at that point.

Then something strange happened.

At first, Harry thought the twins were stealthily introducing an additional toy into the game, but if so, they had better poker-faces today than in any of their previous sessions. Neither twin acknowledged the additional element to the session _at all. _It was... Harry didn't know exactly what it was, but it seemed to be coming from inside the chair. It began with a sudden bulge of the seat cushion, which seemed to sprout right underneath the seat of Harry's arse cheeks, then extend upwards along the back of the chair. Once it reached the line of Harry's hot pants, it stopped, hesitating in place for a moment, then moving forward.

Harry gasped at the cold, slick feeling of the thing, whatever it may be, making its way down the back of his pants. It wriggled steadfastly downward, flattened down to make the journey without straining neither Harry's body nor the material of his pants, then expanded a little when it reached the entrance to Harry's body and the slightly wider space there.

Meanwhile, the twins switched from feathers to fingers. George began stroking all those same places, while Fred deliciously rolled Harry's nipples, seeming blissfully unaware of the intruder preparing to go to town in Harry's pants. Fred pinched one of Harry's nipples; at the same time, the wriggling, slick little thing poked at Harry's entrance. Harry gasped. Wide-eyed, he looked from one twin to the other. They grinned at him, happy in their game.

Another potato wedge fell out of the Randomizer and Harry chewed it distractedly.

The little thing slipped inside Harry. It felt strange, and disturbing... and also really, really good.

The smooth, slick slide of it was entirely painless, but the thing seemed to swell inside him like an inflatable plug. He could feel the length of it dragging along his tail bone as the tip dug deeper; clearly, the material was not growing in place, but kept coming from outside. However, the part that slithered down his pants remained flat, narrow and unobtrusive, while inside him the thing swelled like the father of all cocks proudly rising to attention.

Except, of course, for the tip of the thing, which went exploring further inside him, wriggling here and there, distributing its strange mucus everywhere it went, until it bumped up against Harry's prostate. At the same time, George's fingers dug deeply into Harry's thighs.

Harry froze, then whined with need. The thing inside him froze, as well, before bumping against his prostate a second time. Harry wriggled his ass, ineffectually raising and lowering his hips. The ...tentacle?... inside him just rode along in his pants, not straying even half an inch from where it apparently intended to go.

Harry swallowed down another moan and looked up at the twins, searching their faces. Were they doing this? Much as he hated talking during a scene, he felt that maybe he should get this clarified. Then again, this chair was their invention. Who else could have tampered with it, and for what reason? All it did was bring him intense pleasure. Even if it weren't the twins' doing, was he actually going to complain about it?

The tentacle - Harry resigned himself to calling it what copious amounts of Japanese porn taught him it had to be - was now bumping against his prostate at a steady rhythm. Harry gasped. _No,_ he thought, _I don't think I really need to know. _

Just then, George came over with another piece of fruit. "You have it," Harry gasped, "I'm a bit preoccupied right now." George looked from the squirming, panting Harry over to his brother, who was just trailing lazy circles on Harry's stomach with his finger nails, and raised one eyebrow.

"Brother mine," he said slowly, "are you sure that was a Liberty and not a Sensitive Sour?"

Harry did feel pretty sensitive. He curiously looked up at Fred, waiting for his answer along with George.

"Yes," Fred answered, looking at Harry's bulging pants - and right, they had said that without the Liberty Lozenge, Harry would not be able to achieve an erection at all; he definitely had that, though. Definitely. "I am positive. However, I do believe that our test subject is not reacting only to our implements." Grinning widely, he addressed Harry: "Say, do you find the chair comfortable? It is made to mould to its occupant's form in the most pleasing way."

The tentacle inside Harry wriggled merrily. "Yeeessssss...," Harry moaned.

George's eyes widened. "Oh, I had wondered... I see."

Fred marked something on his clipboard with decisive strokes. He looked immensely satisfied. "Proceeding," he announced, then picked up his discarded feather - but wrong way around. Harry watched with large eyes as the sharpened end of the quill approached his nipple.

It did not take long after that.

The twins' benign torture added to the spot-on machinations of the tentacle inside him rapidly built to a head, and a very short time later, Harry's cock was getting sore from fighting against his pants. Luckily, Harry was not above begging.

"Please...," he panted. "Please, please take off those pants! Please, doctors, I need - I - I _need-"_

The twins looked entirely too happy at this development. "Doctor Weasley," George addressed Fred, "mark down: subject reacting positively to stimuli. Impending orgasm at -" he checked his watch "-twenty-four minutes past commencement of experiment."

Fred meticulously jotted it down on his clipboard. Only then did George raise his wand and finally free Harry from the confinement of his tight pants.

"Oh thank the gods!" Harry exclaimed as his cock burst free. The tentacle inside him inflated a bit more and kept bouncing against his prostate. With a strangled moan, Harry came all over himself.

George said dryly: "First orgasm at minute twenty-five after commencement of experiment without Sensitive Sour."

"Noted, Doctor Weasley," Fred said, tongue in cheek, as he wrote it down.

The Randomizer spat out another item; it fell down the chute with a clattering noise. George went to pick it up. When he turned and held up the lime green hard candy, there was a distinct evil glint in his eyes. "Sensitive Sour!" he crowed happily. "Impeccable timing, if I do says so myself." He petted the Randomizer like a well-behaved pet.

Before Harry had a chance to feel dismayed over the appearance of the candy, Fred came over and petted him, as well. "This is turning out to be quite the fast-paced experiment," he said softly. "You holding up alright, Mister Test Person?"

The tentacle lay dormant inside Harry for now, presumably biding its time until Harry was up to more action. Letting out a long, slow breath, Harry closed his eyes and enjoyed Fred's hand in his hair.

"Yeah," he said, finally. "Yeah, 'm okay."

"Great!"

And off they were on their second round, this time with a Sensitive Sour in Harry's mouth.

At first, it wasn't so bad. They started off lightly once more, only soft touches of the feathers, tickling and teasing. The touches _were_ amplified, a lot; but Harry still found it more pleasant than torturous. He slowly sucked on his Sour and felt the pleasure mount incrementally. By the time his mouth was empty, though, every touch of the feather set his body on fire like an electric charge, every soft brush of lips against his throat sent shivers down his spine, and the mildest scratch of a fingernail down his thigh had him twitching and moaning.

Then the blasted machine spat out another candy.

Fred went to pick it up. "Babbling Bubble," he said, pleased. "Here, chew that slowly," he said, holding it out to Harry. Harry obediently opened his mouth and took the candy from Fred's hand. The little white rectangle behaved like any regular bit of chewing gum: once Harry had bitten through the glazing, it quickly softened in his mouth, giving up a distinct minty taste as he chewed.

"Huh," he said, having expected something more dramatic.

He immediately got that. A bubble formed in front of his mouth without his input, capturing his surprised utterance and carrying it off toward the ceiling. There it hang, pronouncing "Huh" once every ten seconds or so. Harry groaned.

That, too, was immediately captured and carried out of his reach. The twins beamed.

"Great, isn't it?" Fred pointed his wand at the "Huh". "Look what else they can do!" Pointing his wand at the "Huh", he flicked it twice; immediately, the intervals between repetitions shortened. "Huh, huh, huh..." said the bubble.

Not to be outdone by his brother, George aimed at the other bubble. With a twist of his wand like turning a dial, George raised the volume of the groan until the small apartment felt like an erotic cinema.

Harry wanted to bury his head in his hands and quietly die of shame.

He couldn't, though. He was helplessly shackled to the chair, here for these two mad scientists' pleasure. A jolt of arousal went through him. Hadn't he wanted humiliation to become a part of their games? This may not be what he'd had in mind, but Harry couldn't deny that he felt thoroughly humiliated.

And turned on.

Heat rose in his cheeks as the twins played with their two bubbles, making Harry's voice do ever more embarrassing things as he lay there, helpless to stop them, naked, and clearly the target of their game.

To ensure Harry did not feel neglected while they played with his voice, the twins set their feathers to caressing and teasing Harry autonomously. It was fun. Even with the Sensitive Sour, the input was bearable and while Harry did feel aroused, it wasn't bad enough to render him desperate with want. The humiliation was an entirely different thing, of course, but Harry thought he could get a grip on that. Maybe.

Whatever rosy flush his cheeks might have gained blanched to nothing as the tentacle inside Harry came back to life. Harry hadn't gotten another Liberty Lozenge, there was not a chance in hell he could come. He couldn't even get hard! Why was the tentacle activating again?

Not in the least deterred by Harry's lack of physical response, the tentacle started slowly, luxuriously rimming him.

It occurred to Harry that the tentacle did not react only to his physical arousal, but also mental. There was no denying he was incredibly aroused by the twins' game of humiliation, and so apparently the tentacle wanted in on that.

Harry whined.

Immediately, another bubble formed and captured his whine. The twins gladly added it to their collection and began playing with it, changing its pitch, distorting the bubble to get a more drawn-out sound, bouncing it up and down to make Harry's voice shake inside. They were quite obviously having a blast.

Another five minutes passed and the Randomizer spat out... one more Babbling Bubble. Fred and George looked at each other, shrugged, and fed Harry the candy. Wide-eyed, he accepted the second bit of gum.

Usually, when chewing two pieces of gum simultaneously, they quickly combine into a single, big wad. Not so the Babbling Bubbles. No matter how Harry tried to get them to stick, they remained two separate entities inside his mouth.

And emitted two separate bubbles with each sound.

"Fuuuuck...," Harry couldn't help but say, with as much admiration as despair, while watching a pair of frustrated moans take to the air. They were immediately followed by a couple of "Fuuuuck" bubbles. Harry groaned, and that sound, as well, took off in duplicate.

Resolving to keep his damn mouth shut from now on, Harry pressed his head back into the chair and firmly closed his eyes. No way was he putting another sound out there!

The tentacle stopped rimming him and slipped back inside. And, dammit, he couldn't shut up about _that!_ It just felt too damn good.

He furiously choked down another gasp, but didn't quite manage; a dry "Ack!" escaped him.

Fred frowned. "That one isn't very pretty," he said. "It ruins our composition." Paying closer attention, Harry realized they had arranged his moans and gasps into something of a melody; there was a discernible rhythm, anyway. He rolled his eyes at them.

"Let us discard that one," George decided and popped the bubble with the tip of his wand. It burst with a last, pitifully dying "Aaaack...".

Looking over at Harry, Fred added: "You can spit out the gum now, if you like. The bubbles will continue forming either way." The original minty flavour hadn't faded as it would in a regular muggle gum, but the chewy stuff in his mouth presented a choking hazard, so Harry quickly followed Fred's advice.

With another wiggle of the tentacle, another moan escaped and Harry finally gave up. He resigned himself to providing the twins with an endless stream of moans, and gasps, and frustrated whines. Arousal washed through his body in great waves, making him sweat and squirm and strain against his bonds. The tentacle inside him had felt great before, but with the Sensitive Sour? It felt _amazing._

Harry felt like every single bump of the tentacle against his prostate could make him come, _would_ have made him come had he currently been capable of it. As it was, though, his arousal just built and built with nowhere to go.

Another five minutes passed; the Randomizer spat out a falafel ball, which Harry waved off. Five minutes later, his eyes were glued to the Randomizer, but it only spat out a potato wedge. And another, both of which Fred and George happily ate.

Twenty-five minutes now since Harry ingested the Sensitive Sour. His body felt fit to burst, all the arousal shored up inside him with no way to relieve it. The ceiling of the twins' apartment was covered with bubbles of all shapes and sizes, providing a cacophony of desperate, sexy sounds that Harry was by now beyond being ashamed of. He just wanted to _come!_

"You know, brother mine...," Fred said, tapping his finger against his pursed lips, "I do believe we have too many of these bubbles by now."

"It does get a little crowded, does it not?" George agreed.

"Maybe we should share our wealth -"

"-with the good people of Knockturn Alley?" George finished his brother's sentence with gleaming eyes.

"What?! No!!!" A new, hot surge of shame washed through Harry at that idea. His desperate protest immediately took to the air - in duplicate. Harry raged against his bonds, cursing and yelling, but to no avail: The twins each took hold of a window handle and turned.

"This a serious no, Harry?" Fred asked, concern suddenly replacing his playful glee.

Harry huffed out an exasperated breath. "Oh, do what you must," he grumbled.

It wasn't that he was _against_ the idea, per se; it was just utterly humiliating. As the twins opened the windows, Harry thought about all the shops in Knockturn Alley. There ought to be only adults in Knockturn Alley, and at this time of day, even the occasional pureblood brat accompanying their father like Malfoy had done would not be around. So at least Harry's indecent moans and pleas would not sully innocent ears. That was something, anyway.

But then Harry thought of the people who _would_ be there to hear him: dark wizards of all kinds, seedy shopkeeps, whores; that gross innkeeper of the Horrid Hump, with the ever-running nose and that ghastly breath. The flinty-eyed apothecary at the corner with the sub-par hygiene standards.

Harry imagined one of his moans flying into the inn, maybe followed by a couple of amplified gasps; he imagined the eyes of the gathered criminals widening, furtively glancing around; hands going to flies, safely hidden by wide, dark robes. Conversation would stutter to a halt as people around the taproom were suddenly intensely focussing on their own firewhiskey, while their robes shuddered with rhythmic motions. Then his "What?! No!!!" would flutter in, giving some sadistic assholes the last kick they needed to come all over their pants. A few quickly muttered cleaning charms, then one of them might get up and make his way homeward.

Outside in the alley, though, he would run into more moans and consider keeping one for later. Did the twins' bubbles dissolve after a while on their own or did they need to be made to burst? Harry imagined people all over the alley furtively squirrelling away his moans, gasps and curses for later use. Maybe, ten years down the line, some filthy old geezer would still open up his little box every night and jerk it to the sound of Harry's desperate pleas. And maybe, just maybe, he'd even know whose voice it was that he was enjoying again and again and again.

Harry shuddered with arousal. The idea should be disgusting, maybe a little daunting, too - but all he could feel was a hot flush of embarrassment mixed with, incongruously, pride.

Let them have him.

Let them have all of him. He was the Halfblood Whore on the Wizengamot, he was here to entertain and offend. If he did nothing else in his time here on earth, at least he could be a thorn in the conservative purebloods' sides.

The twins' feathers turned around, soft tickles being replaced with deliciously scratching shafts. Harry squealed, prompting Fred and George to finally abandon their Harry orchestra and returning to his side.

Looking down at him with scientific curiosity, the twins grinned happily at what they saw. Fred adjusted his nerdy specs and went to retrieve his clipboard. "Nearly half an hour in, how are you feeling?"

"Oh fuck you," Harry spat, but he didn't mean it.

"You know," George said ponderously, "that would be an interesting data point. How does our subject react to being fucked while under the influence of both the Sensitive Sour and the Soft Sage? Inquiring minds need to know."

Harry gulped. "That is... not exactly what I meant."

Grinning down at him, the twins chanted: "Oh, we know!"

"But we don't care."

"We are going to do this -"

"- anyway. Because we -"

"- really, really want to."

Twin speak. So annoying. Also, Harry envied them, because they could talk freely; meanwhile, his "That is... not exactly what I meant" joined its fellow utterances in bobbing merrily out the window.

The Randomizer rattled. George went to retrieve the candy.

It was striped white and pink.

"Fucking finally!" Harry exclaimed. "Give it here!!!" He didn't care that these words, as well, engendered a duo of bubbles each, nor did he particularly care that he wasn't playing his role as scientific test subject very well. He just wanted to finally be permitted to come!

Smiling negligently, George juggled the candy between his two hands, then made it dance across his knuckles. "You like that one, huh?" he asked. "Weeell... How about we first get you all set up to be fucked, then we give you this? I'm sure you'd appreciate having one of us inside you when you finally get to come."

Harry did love that idea, but, well; he still had that tentacle, didn't he? He really just wanted to come. The twins were pretty great to play with, though, and obviously this was something they wanted. He had already been waiting for this orgasm for way too long, but maybe he could be patient for one minute longer?

"Hurry," was all he said.

"As you wish," was the easy reply. George's fingers clenched tightly around the Lozenge as both twins raised their wands. Under Harry's impressed gaze, the dentist's chair evolved into a gyn chair, the leg rest splitting into two halves that drifted sideways and up, while the back rest lowered until Harry's head was on equal height with the twins' hips. Harry was left lying helpless like a turtle on its back, with his hands secured at his sides and his bare legs sticking up in a sexy V. The tentacle inside him wiggled happily, and Harry moaned.

Stepping up to Harry's head, George opened his fly. Fred stepped into the V of Harry's legs and did likewise. Harry felt saliva gather in his mouth in happy anticipation.

George fed Harry the Liberty Lozenge. Harry fervently sucked on it the moment it hit his tongue. A moment later, he felt his flaccid cock pick up and rapidly fill out. Relief mixed with heightened arousal rushed through his entire body like a tidal wave.

Then things got... strange.

The twins suddenly stepped back with simultaneous shouts of dismayed surprise. The shackles around Harry's arms, legs, neck and forehead softened and turned cold - and slick. Then they all began squirming.

_Tentacles,_ he realized. The chair had fully come to live beneath him, and now it was claiming him. The shackles the twins had tied him down with had been replaced by the chair's very own, slimy, yet equally inescapable tentacles. The things were writhing down his body, tightening and loosening rhythmically, massaging the flesh underneath. A tiny offshoot of the chair's many extremities slithered up between Harry's thighs and would around his cock. This one, as well, contracted and released at intervals, milking him.

Harry gasped. Fuck, that felt great! Wide-eyed, he looked at the twins, but they just looked back, equally wide-eyed and surprised.

"Guys? Is this not your doing? Guys???"

That was nearly the last thing Harry said before the chair sent another tentacle to shut him up.

It was the one lying around his throat. Slithering to and fro, it looped once around his neck, then the end slowly trailed up his cheek, then circled his mouth.

_"Is this safe?" _Harry wanted to ask, but only got half the sentence out before the tentacle slithered inside his mouth and cut him off. At first, it seemed to be looking around, touching here and there and leaving its mucus everywhere; it tasted oddly of vanilla. Then it moved on to teasing his tongue, at which point Harry realized that it didn't have suction cups like a real tentacle would. Also, forcing his eyes back open, he noticed that each tentacle had a lurid, bright colour.

It soothed him.

No matter how surprised the twins appeared, this was obviously of their design. Harry let his eyelids flutter shut and surrendered himself to the chair. It had taken good care of him this far, after all.

The chair seemed to sense his surrender. It rewarded him by squeezing a bit tighter around all his limbs, then going for broke.

The tentacle in his ass inflated lager than ever, and, presumably because it was no longer hiding, withdrew in wider loops to slam back into him with the force of a battering ram. At least, that was what his senses heightened by the Sensitive Sour told him. Meanwhile, the thing in his mouth was done exploring and decided to head on down his throat. There, it started pumping in and out, _fucking_ the living daylights out of him.

Harry's heart pounded a staccato rhythm in his chest, and whenever the tentacle in his mouth allowed it, he gulped in huge breaths of air. His head felt dizzy with arousal or maybe lack of oxygen. His dick was rock-hard, highly sensitive and being stroked expertly in a slick, tight, and slowly warming grip.

Harry didn't care what exactly those tentacles were made of, nor the stuff lubing them, nor did he care whether the twins had planned this or not. This was the most. Amazing. Fuck. EVER!

The Randomizer clattered.

Two more tentacles slithered up Harry's sides and attached to his nipples.

The tentacle in his mouth rallied for another sortie down his throat.

Lights flashed inside Harry's closed eyelids, giddiness welled up in his chest but had nowhere to go, his throat was blocked, his arms and legs and even his fingers and toes were clutched tightly by the chair while it was mercilessly fucking his ass, hammering his prostate for all it was worth and it was so good and too much and not enough and then a tentacle _sucked_ on his left nipple and Harry was gone.

His entire body clenching up, he felt come burst out of his cock like magma erupting from the deep. Shudders wrecked his slim frame, and as soon as the tentacle withdrew from his throat, he was gasping and crying with the intense sensations.

"Harry, you okay?" Fred asked, sounding concerned.

Harry lay gasping wordlessly for a while, before he beamed a wiped-out smile up at the twins. "Yeeeaah...," he drawled with lazy satisfaction. "This chair's amaaaazing."

"I'm glad you think so," George said, frowning a little, "because apparently it's not letting us have our own go at you."

"Quite the possessive thing we built there," Fred added, frowning as well. "Also, it's been holding out on us."

"Huh?"

"We tested it."

"Of course we did."

"And it felt really nice."

"Sure did."

"But it never -"

"-grew _tentacles_ -"

"-for either of us." Both of them were now sternly scowling at the chair.

Harry gaped at them. "You mean you really didn't know."

"Know what?" Their frowns turned from the chair to Harry.

"Umh, that there's been a tentacle inside my ass all the way from the start?"

Fred and George looked at Harry, looked at each other, then burst out laughing.

"Sod this," Fred said when he'd recovered enough to talk and blasted his clip-board into smithereens with a flick of his wand and a few muttered words. "Entirely flawed set-up. False premises."

"But a nice realization," Harry threw in. The tentacle in his ass had withdrawn, but it was occasionally petting his opening as though testing the waters. "Reeeeally nice one."

"Glad you think so," Fred said, echoing George's earlier words. "So, wanna go again?"

Holding up his hand, he presented to Harry the latest thing the Randomizer had spat out. It was another Liberty Lozenge.

"Oh my," Harry meeped. The sound floated to the ceiling. In duplicate.

"Can we... uh. Could you _finite_ the bubbles, please?" Fred nodded and retrieved a glass with a sweet liquid from somewhere. Harry's chair was raised to a more upright position and he got to drink the antidote. George lazily poked his wand at the two bubbles containing Harry's most recent question, making them burst. Most of the bubbles of Harry's session with the tentacles, as well as his part of their dialogue, had drifted off by now, only a few were still hanging around the corners of the apartment's ceiling. Harry didn't mind those too much and neither, it appeared, did the twins.

"Ready?" Fred asked, holding out the Lozenge to Harry.

"One more thing..." Harry felt another blush rising in his cheeks. "Could... could I... Oh, fuck this. Could you put up a mirror for me, please?"

The twins grinned widely. "Absolutely."

"Alright, here we go," Fred announced and fed the Liberty Lozenge to Harry. His cock twitched. So did the tentacles.

_This is gonna be fun!_

* * *

Twenty minutes later, the chair released Harry and the twins led him over to their opulent king size bed. There, they fed him the antidote to the Soft Sage. The only thing left in his system now - apart from whatever remained of the Death Eaters' many experiments - was the Sensitive Sour.

Most of the bubbles had drifted off by now, only a quiet moan remained in one corner and a feeble "Oh my" seemed to be perched on one of the roof beams. George hung his lab coat over the back of a chair and waved his wand at the "Oh my", slowing its interval down considerably. Harry assumed it would sound once every ten or twenty minutes, now. Then, George climbed on the bed and snuggled up to Harry.

"You feel up to anything more today or do you just want to sleep?" Fred asked, shucking his lab coat and putting aside the spectacles before joining Harry and George on the bed.

"I'd like to cuddle a bit," Harry admitted. "But I think I'll be ready for more in a little while. Not another go at the chair, though," he added with a shiver that was equal parts delight and horror. "That thing is _intense!"_

"That is good," George said, "because as much as we adore watching you in the throes of passion, we also very much like to be part of the fun."

"Yeah, I bet," Harry sniggered. This clearly hadn't gone the way the twins had planned it, but Harry for one did not regret that. Neither, he suspected, did the twins. It wasn't often they outsmarted themselves with their inventions, but when they did, the results were usually spectacular. This chair of theirs was certainly no exception. Though, unfortunately for them, it didn't seem to like them as much as it liked Harry.

_Tough. _

They cuddled.

For a little while, they idly chatted about this and that, trailing hands down thighs or rib cages here and there, but not getting involved in anything more serious than that. The twins snacked on the left-over dinner foods. Harry closed his eyes and happily let himself drift.

Eventually, though, Harry felt sufficiently rested to do something about the two gorgeous men lying on either side of him. Fred and George had provided him with a fantastic evening, granting him three amazing orgasms as well as some highly inventive new games. Harry's fantasies would come back to this evening for quite some time, he was sure.

It was time to give back a little of that joy to his doms.

Harry let his hands slowly drift down Fred's body until he was impeded by the man's pants. "Off," he commanded softly. Fred obliged. Behind Harry, so did George. Once all three men were naked, Harry installed himself with his ass up against George's crotch and his hands in Fred's lap. His head was still buried in the crook of Fred's neck; he began laying soft, shy kisses against the warm skin. Fred sighed happily.

Slowly, Harry began to move. His fingers drifted down to Fred's sack, teased around his inner thighs, following the line between thigh and pelvis, inching ever closer to Fred's slowly filling cock until finally they brushed up against its length. Meanwhile, Harry wiggled his bum against George's dick, getting it equally interested in the proceedings. George's hands happily trailed over Harry's ass and sides, stroking here, caressing there, until he, as well, had a hand on Harry's cock. It didn't stay long, however, moving on as soon as he was certain that Harry was aroused and ready to go. Then, George's hands returned to Harry's ass, checking if he was still open from the chair's octopus mating ritual.

He was. Merlin, he was! Open, and wet, and ready to be filled again.

Harry idly wondered if the chair's mucus contained its own kind of aphrodisiac. But then, George was gently easing inside him, and Fred was kissing him, and he lost that train of thought.

Harry kept kissing Fred while caressing his cock and balls with his hands even when George built up a nice, steady rhythm behind him. George didn't go fast, though. Both twins kept their motions slow, gentle and warm. This felt like they were not really fucking or using Harry, but continuing the snuggling session; just with a few more intimate snuggles.

Usually, Harry didn't enjoy vanilla sex, but just this once, he felt it was really appropriate. After the exhilarating, yet exhausting encounter with the chair, he needed to get back into things slowly. Apparently, the twins could sense this and were holding back accordingly.

Harry kind of loved them for that.

The more everyone got aroused, however, the more Harry wanted things to speed up, after all. With some insistent manoeuvring, he got himself curled between the twins until Fred had his cock in Harry's mouth rather than in his hands. Moaning happily, Harry set to work.

He was filled from both sides, now, surrounded by Weasley twins, with George's body bracketing Harry's from behind and Fred curling around his front, the twins' heads bumping together somewhere above Harry's head.

All three of them were still lying on their sides, making the entire encounter slow and lazy rather than hot and fast. It was still enjoyable, and it sufficed to get the twins off one after the other.

While they were lazily basking in the afterglow, Fred suddenly announced: "So we invited a couple of friends to join us at around eight, which is in about ten minutes. You up for that?"

Any kind of lassitude fell off Harry in a split seconds. Every part of him perked up. "Friends? Do I know them?"

Fred smiled at him. "That would be telling, wouldn't it?"

George's warm presence vanished from behind Harry, only to return and wave a hand with a blindfold in his field of vision. "Here, will you wear that?"

Harry turned on his back so he could look at both of them. "You trust them?" he asked. He hadn't gone out at all beyond his shows, happy to go from Rita to Charlie to the twins and back to Rita. For all that he had walked the streets for years, all of a sudden he felt nervous about giving himself to new people outside of his set parameters.

"We do," Fred assured him.

"So do you," George added with a wink.

"Trust us."

Harry nodded slowly. An idea formed in the back of his head, but he immediately discarded it. That wasn't going to happen.

...Was it?

Well, no matter who the twins had invited, Harry did trust the two of them. Also, not knowing who it was seemed like an exciting kind of game. Smiling at George, then at Fred, Harry reached out and took the blindfold. Sitting up a little, he laid it over his own eyes and turned his head to George. "Tie this for me?" he asked, handing the laces back to Fred.

* * *

When the floo flared up to announce a visitor, Harry was kneeling in the middle of the room, wearing nothing but the blindfold. The twins were standing to either side, guarding him.

The first visitor stepped through, making no sound but the soft swish of a robe. The twins offered no greeting, and neither did the visitor. Everyone waited silently for the next guest to arrive. Only a minute later, the flames rose up again and another person stepped through.

"That is everyone," Fred announced, probably for Harry's benefit. He assumed everyone else already knew what was going on and who would be involved.

George left Harry's side, returning a moment later to distribute something to the visitors and his twin. A moment later, Harry's skin was touched in four different places in a way he was all too familiar with.

Riding crops.

Four people were going to spank him simultaneously, and Harry still had the Sensitive Sour coursing through his bloodstream.

"Oh my," said the little bubble in the corner.

* * *

Harry had lost his sense of time.

Hands were touching him everywhere, pinching already bruised ass cheeks, invading his mouth, fondling his cock and tickling the soles of his feet. There was the occasional tongue mixed in, lapping at the shell of his ear, his adam's apple, his sack.

Harry had been spanked, tortured with Wartenberg wheels, and had his ass and mouth fucked intermittently by Fred and George.

He still didn't know who else was with him, only that they clearly knew what they were doing.

Then, finally, one of the guests got into position behind him. Harry was kneeling on a breeding bench at the moment, his arms and legs tied securely to the bench with his legs spread wide. The body pressing up behind him was large and warm and... familiar. Still trying to figure out why, Harry felt the man's cock push in.

Harry gasped around the intrusive gag in his mouth. _Charlie!_

But then... Could it be that...?

Even as he was thinking it, the gag was untied and removed from his mouth. A boot made from a familiar, slick leather rubbed against his cheek and a quiet voice whispered: "Pay proper respect to your mistress, pet."

Beaming, Harry kissed his mistress's dragonhide boot.

The joy of discovering that all four of his partners were here, together, bringing their united sadistic genius down on him and him alone, went to Harry's head in a way even being claimed by the tentacle chair had not managed to do.

Laughing free and wild, Harry hugged the bench beneath him in happiness. "I love you all!" he proclaimed joyfully. Then he came, happily spreading his WWW-spiked, extra-sensitive come all over the bench.

Somewhere, a tiny voice said: "Oh my."

* * *

Draco Malfoy sat in his manor, now properly _his_ since his blindly extremist father hadn't come back from his ill-fated trip to America, and considered the three tiny bubbles floating above his desk.

The first one emitted the most indecent moan ever.

The second one said, in _Potter's_ voice: _"Umh, that there's been a tentacle inside my ass all the way from the start?"_

The third one was a soft, breathy sigh.

He'd found these three puzzling bubbles in his shopping bag after apparating home from Knockturn Alley last night. Who'd put them there? And why? Draco could make neither heads nor tails of this.

Was this an attack on Potter's privacy, and if so, should he contact Potter about it?

Draco shook his head, snorting at his own idiocy. What privacy? Potter himself was throwing his body, his voice, all of himself out there for the world to see. There were pictures in muggle magazines of Potter naked and in poses that left little to the imagination. There were even what the muggles called _videos, _with moving pictures, sound and everything. After the scandal about "Their Toy" hit the wizarding media, Draco had snuck out to a seedy muggle theatre displaying a recording of Their Toy's show in California, and he had to admit, Potter had a lot of gall.

Also, a ridiculously pretty body.

Tapping his wand to the middle bubble, Draco made it play once more: _"Umh, that there's been a tentacle inside my ass all the way from the start?"_ He couldn't help but imagine Potter writhing on a bed with dark green satin sheets, held down by tentacles more delicate yet equally as strong as the giant squid's. Draco watched, entranced, as one of them slithered its way toward his rival's much-abused behind and inexorably slipped inside, making Potter emit that delicious moan.

Draco looked around his empty study and, blushing, spelled all the doors and windows firmly shut. No need for Astoria to find him like this. Then, he set his bubbles to play at different intervals, leaned back in his chair and gave himself up to pleasure.

When a new video of Their Toy hit the muggle stores a month later, featuring "Their Toy - Captured by the Evil Kraken" and apparently full of what the muggles called "amazing CGI special effects", Draco was convinced the bubbles in Knockturn had been a promotion act.

He bought the film anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year, everyone!  
Please don't forget to leave some feedback for the author. ^^


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